


rites of passage

by nightbloomings



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomings/pseuds/nightbloomings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at what came to pass before Ludendorff,  told mostly in the form of independent vignettes, but with an overall plot to tie them all together. Some canon details, with a lot of headcanon filling in the blanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**AUGUST 1985**  
 _TREVOR_

North Yankton, in general, was a shithole as far as Trevor was concerned, but Lakeview, the little farm town he'd found himself in, was especially crappy. There wasn't even a damn lake nearby. It was deadsville, the kind of place where some old fart falling out of the rocker on his porch made front page news. Not that he was used to much better, of course—he'd grown up in Carson, over the border in Canada, and the only thing that place had going for it was the fact that he wasn't trapped there anymore.

At least in Lakeview he had a plane. Or access to one, anyway. It was practically his—the old guy he borrowed it from couldn't see more than an inch in front of his busted up nose, and there wasn't anybody else ever needing to use it. Either way, the plane was a bit of a heap. It was a Beagle, with green wings and a white body, pockmarked with rust and surface dents, and for all Trevor knew, it was as old as the guy who owned it. It was a stubborn son of a bitch too—the thing could run away on you if you so much as looked at the instrument panel the wrong way. It was a source of pride for Trevor, knowing he could wrangle the plane into submission. He didn't need some psych evaluation to prove he was capable of that.

'Unstable,' the psychologist had called him. That fucking Beagle was more unstable than he'd ever been while piloting it. So the Air Force could fuck themselves, because at least where he was, he didn't have to answer to some bullshit battery of standardised tests.

He hadn't meant to end up in Lakeview, or anywhere like it. He hadn't any kind of plan at all when he'd left Carson, aside from 'face south and start walking.' Turned out, though, Lakeview was in sore need of a means of getting shit over the border monkeys' heads and into Canada. Trevor had no idea exactly what he was transporting most of the time, but he didn't exactly care, either. If it paid, he'd move it. He needed money, and connections. He was doing alright with the first part—shit in Lakeview was as cheap as the fine layer of dirt that blanketed practically every surface—but, unsurprisingly, there weren't too many well-placed titans of business hanging around.

There was one guy Trevor had met a few months ago, down at the one shitty bar in town. Ricky. He was a grizzly fucker, leathered and rum-soaked, but he'd been the most reliable source of work Trevor had come across yet. Ricky would call him up a couple of times a month with a few sparse details—never any names, just the departure time and drop point.

The last call he got from Ricky had been the same as any other—one guy with some hot product, headed for Vaughan on the other side of the border, two days time at one p.m. sharp. Trevor had done runs to Vaughan before; it was a straight shot from Lakeview, so whoever needed the cargo gone needed it gone quick. Nothing strange there. Yeah, law enforcement in Lakeview was a total joke, but sitting on top of hot product was stupid no matter where you'd set up shop.

So, two days later, Trevor got the Beagle out of the hangar about an hour before go-time and did his usual pre-flight checks. A lazy, complacent person might figure the checks were a waste of time, especially when they were the only one to ever operate the thing. But Trevor was neither of those things. Besides, how rookie would it be for something to crap out mid-flight, on a job? No, Trevor was a _professional._ He didn't have a whole lot else to fall back on anyway.

At exactly one o'clock, Trevor saw no sign of the client. Three minutes passed, then five, and still nothing. Now _that_ was strange—folk didn't call cargo hot and then show up late to the drop off. Hell, they were usually irritatingly early, hovering over his shoulder, obnoxiously checking their watch while he focused on making sure they weren't going to die in a fireball at ten thousand feet.

At nearly seven minutes past, Trevor saw a dust trail cut through the entrance of the airfield. He pushed off from the side of the plane where he'd been leaning, but paused when he saw a second dust trail.

One guy and cargo, that's what Ricky had said. So unless the cargo was capable of independent motion, something was definitely up.

The first car screeched to a stop about fifteen feet away. Someone stumbled out of it. A guy; young. Broad and kind of stocky, but strong. He reminded Trevor of the meatheads he’d gone to school with, with his muscle shirt and too-white sneakers. Hell, he was even carrying a damned backpack. The kid took off at full clip, running towards Trevor and the Beagle. The second car pulled up closer to the hangar, the door flinging open and an old guy falling out. His shirt was bloody, but not so bad that Trevor automatically assumed it was his own. The old guy was running after the kid, shouting and flailing his arms around. He looked like a total jackass, and if it weren't for the fact that now Trevor was tangentially involved in whatever the fuck was going on, he'd probably lean against the plane again and have a good laugh.

"Hey!" the kid shouted as he approached, pointing at Trevor with an outstretched arm. "You the pilot?" 

Trevor scoffed and unhooked his aviators from the neckline of his t-shirt, sliding them on. “You know many people who just hang out next to planes on runways?” 

"Fuck off. We gotta go, man." 

"This ain’t no jet,  _man_. It’s going to take a minute to get juiced up.” 

"Then fucking  _get on it_.” 

Trevor rolled his eyes and went to get into the Beagle. He’d noticed up close that the kid had a gash over his right eye and a nasty shiner developing just under it, but any concern he might’ve felt for the kid was melting away, quick. He climbed up onto the wing, flinging open the pilot side door. He reached in and turned the engine on, listening as it flipped over with a shuddered groan. He ducked down and looked out the windshield, just in time to see the old guy catch up to the kid. 

The old guy lunged forward, grabbing the kid by the collar of his shirt. The pair scuffled next to the plane for a moment before the old guy hauled off and punched the kid in the gut. It must’ve been a doozy, because the kid hunched over and staggered back a few steps, the old guy advancing on him. 

Shit. Trevor still had no idea what was happening, but either way it’d be bad for business if the kid bit it now. 

Trevor scanned the cockpit for something he could use to break up the two Neanderthals, and his eyes fell on the small flare gun he kept on the dash. He grabbed it and backed out of the cockpit, hopping down and circling around the back of the plane. He was positioned behind the kid, who was still kind of hunched over, holding an arm up to block the old guy. 

"Hey!" Trevor shouted, lunging forward. "Back the fuck up, pops." 

"Keep out of it, you skid," the old guy barked, waving Trevor off. 

'Skid'? What, exactly, about Trevor's appearance said 'skid'? Yeah, his hair was long and kinda shaggy, but it was clean. And his white t-shirt was only still white in a few places and had a few tears in it, but what did that matter? He was a busy fucking guy with too much going on to worry about the state of some t-shirt.

This fat old fuck was judging him on the spot, woefully underestimating him, and Trevor found he no longer gave a shit what was happening. The kid could've killed this prick’s whole family and Trevor would still want him gone.

Trevor shouted at the old guy again and took three long strides forward, coming up right in his face. He lifted the flare gun, lining it up with the guy's eye. He stared back at Trevor, jaw working like a fish out of water, and Trevor was sure he'd never seen anything so pathetic.

"You brought this on yourself," he muttered before pulling the trigger.

“Oh!” the kid shouted, recoiling. “Jesus! What the fuck...” He turned his face away from the old guy’s body, covering his mouth with his palm.

Trevor nodded slowly, tucking the flare gun into the back of his jeans. He’d been all keyed up a second ago, but now, looking down at what was left of the guy’s face, he felt pretty sobered. He looked over at the kid who had taken a few steps past him towards the nose of the plane. He seemed to be handling the turn of events well, all things considered. Maybe he had experience with smoking eye sockets.

Trevor watched the kid pace a bit more. He was rubbing his palm over his mouth, with his other hand planted on his hip. After a few moments, he turned back to Trevor.

“Well? What the fuck are we gonna do now? I still gotta get to Vaughan. Like, today.”

Trevor shrugged. He’d never had to dispose of a body before. The only thing he’d ever killed had been things that’d made the unfortunate decision of getting in front of his car—foxes, deer, and one drifter.

“I ain’t ever done... this before,” he said, waving vaguely at the body.

The kid scoffed. “Bullshit you haven’t.”

Trevor arched an eyebrow at the kid. He didn’t like his tone—it was too similar to the way the old guy had called him a skid in what had turned out to be his final moments. He crossed his arms, consciously pushing his fists against his biceps to bulk them up a bit.

“You calling me a fucking liar?”

The kid stared at him, his eyes faltering and dropping to Trevor’s arms for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak and then shook his head.

“I—no. I’m not. I just hoped maybe you’d have experience with...” his voice trailed off on a sigh. “’Cause I don’t.”

Trevor was satisfied with the answer—he seemed pretty green, after all. Maybe not much older than him, even. “Well,” he said, ”first time for everything. We’ll drop him off on the way. Grab the legs.”

* * *

“Yeah, you know, when you said we’ll ‘drop him off on the way,’ this isn’t exactly what I pictured.”

Trevor looked over his shoulder. Michael—the kid—was kneeling over the old guy’s body, one hand braced near the handle of the plane’s cargo door.

“What the fuck else were we going to do? I ain’t finding some place to land just to ditch that dead asshole.”

“Fine, fine. Just... how far are we?”

Trevor turned back to look at the instrument panel. They were about halfway to Vaughan, just past the border. He knew there was a large lake nearby—he’d been practically blinded by sunlight reflecting off it once before. Rookie mistake, flying without sunglasses. That was how Trevor did things—no mistakes, if he could help it; and one to learn from, if he couldn't.

He spotted the lake before long, sparkling as it crested over the horizon. They had five minutes, give or take.

"Alright, the lake's right ahead," Trevor said over his shoulder to Michael. "You're gonna want to grab that yellow strap next to the door—see it?"

"Yeah."

"Good—at least we know you ain't colourblind. Grab it and hold onto it tight."

Trevor heard Michael shuffling behind him, followed by a tentative, "okay."

"I mean like really hold onto it," Trevor said, shifting to look back at Michael. "Treat that thing like it's the last tangible scrap of your feeble manhood."

Michael levelled his eyes at Trevor. "I got it," he ground out.

Trevor nodded. "Button number one, established. Good to know. Now, when I tell you to—and I mean _exactly_ when I tell you—you're going to flip that red switch above the handle, and then pull the handle out and down. That's _down_ —not up. Then you're going to push with all that washed-up quarterback strength and shove the door open—it's a bitch, really gonna have to give 'er—all the while making sure you don't shove _yourself_ out."

Michael scoffed. "You're a real fuckin' peach, you know that?"

"Hey, man— _you_ hired _me._ "

"I didn't, actually. I'm a... third party. Trust me, if I'd been doing this on my own, I wouldn't have hired some noodly-armed punk."

Trevor smiled to himself—at least the kid could give it as well as he could take it.

"Alright, alright. There's the lake. Get ready."

Trevor heard Michael huffing and grunting, accompanied by the shuffling of the old guy's body being dragged along the floor.

"This is really fucking disgusting."

"Yeah, but at least now you know what happens when someone takes a flare to the face. At close range."

"Well, thank fuck, then."

"Okay..." Trevor said, drawing out the word as he eyed up the distance to the centre of the lake. "Now! Door, now!"

He watched over his shoulder to make sure Michael was handling the door properly. He'd grabbed the right handle at least, and knew the difference between up and down, too. He struggled with the door, swearing and huffing a few times, but Trevor couldn't fault him for that; he could barely open the thing himself most of the time.

As soon as the door opened, a vacuum of air pulled at the plane. "Jesus Christ!" Michael yelled over the rushing air, recoiling back from the door and tightening his grip on the strap.

"Gotta make that drop, man, or else buddy's gonna be decorating the prairie instead!"

Michael pulled the body closer, and then angled himself behind it, and kicked it out the cargo door.

With the body gone, Michael pulled the door closed and latched it again. Trevor heard him let out a heavy sigh and a handful of curses, and then he came back to the cockpit, flopping down into the copilot's seat.

"Never again," Michael muttered, running a hand through his cropped hair. "Never."

"Which part? The flare? The drop off? My services?"

"All of it! Just fucking all of it! Let's just get to Vaughan, okay? I've had enough of this plane to last me at least one lifetime."

"Hey, now... that ain't fair. It's not the plane's fault. This is just a shitty first impression. She's a good bird, otherwise. Probably never will smell quite the same again, though."

Michael slumped into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Trevor could see just how young the guy was then—he was practically _pouting_.

"How'd all this get started, anyway? With the old guy, I mean."

Michael huffed and turned to look out the window at his left. "He was a loose end. Hadn't counted on him unraveling."

Trevor nodded. "Gotta clean up the loose ends," he said, as if he'd had any experience with them himself.

"No fucking kidding."

"You, uh..." Trevor paused, unsure of the right words. He pretended to adjust his sunglasses to fill the silence. "You been working long?"

Michael shrugged. "A year or so."

"Yeah, yeah... same for me. It's been good, though—real good." That was bullshit. Trevor hadn't had more than a hundred dollars in his pocket... well, ever, but especially not since he'd started pulling jobs. But his new buddy didn't need to know that.

Michael didn't say anything though, which, to Trevor, meant one of two things: either he came from money and had no way to relate; or, he could relate too well and didn't want to talk about it. Trevor could respect the latter possibility, but that first one? Fuck him, if that was true. He and his moody ass could find their own way out of Vaughan.

If that was the case, though, why would he be pulling shitty drop jobs for third parties? Fuck, maybe he was so rich that he was just that bored. Even _worse._

"You do this a lot?" Michael finally asked. "Cargo runs, I mean."

"Yeah, sure. I've got a good roster of regulars."

Michael nodded. He went quiet then, and when Trevor looked over, he was picking gunk out from under his fingernails.

"I've, uh, been looking to expand, though, y'know? Start working for myself. I've always been more of an entrepreneur."

That seemed to pique Michael's interest. "Oh yeah? Like what?"

Trevor shrugged. He hadn't actually been thinking that at all—the cargo runs weren't paying enough, sure, but he did enjoy them. "Uh, y'know—the usual. Whatever pays best."

Michael didn't say anything again. Trevor wasn't sure what kind of response he'd been expecting—maybe a 'yeah, that's cool' or even a 'turns out I know a guy...’ But the radio silence... Well, it was almost a good surprise—too many people talked too fucking much anyway. An economy of words: that's what Trevor was into.

* * *

It took another half hour to reach the airfield in Vaughan, and the stench of charred flesh hadn't cleared out at all. Sitting in the thick of it for so long had gotten to Trevor, and he suspected, to Michael too, because neither of them had spoken in a while.

Trevor managed to land the Beagle fairly smoothly, for once, and thank fuck for it—he was sure his stomach wouldn't have been able to take it if it'd been as rough as it usually was. But, the moment he hopped out of the cockpit and his nostrils were assaulted with fresh, clean air, it was all for naught. He buckled over, kneeling on the tarmac, and vomited. It was harsh, a whole-body kind of thing, and he could hear Michael doing the same on the other side of the plane.

Trevor took in a few deep breaths and stood, leaning an arm against the side of the Beagle. He could see Michael’s feet under the plane as he stood and came around behind the tail.

“I gotta go meet my contact,” he said, hooking a thumb behind him. “We made good time, though.”

Trevor shrugged. “I’m a good pilot.”

“Yeah. I won’t be long; we’ll be able to head back in a couple hours.”

“I’ll see what I can do about the inside of this thing,” Trevor said, smacking his palm against the side of the plane.

Michael scoffed and slung his backpack over one shoulder. He gave a quick nod and then turned, heading away from the plane. He walked a few feet before turning back. “Hey, that expansion stuff you were talking about?”

“Yeah?”

“I got a couple of ideas. All half-cocked right now, but things I've been working on. You can give me your thoughts on the way back. If you want.”

Trevor pushed off the plane and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sure, yeah. Could be good.”

Michael nodded again and continued on. Trevor still hadn't made his mind up about him, but it was easier to trust a guy who played his cards close to his chest, in the long run. A partnership—the right partnership—could be the right move. Economies of scale, and all that.  And if it got him the fuck out of Lakeview, even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about pre-game Trevor and Michael, those two stupid kids. I'm going to try to update once a week at least, but possibly more often if I can manage. Also, there will be some Michael/Trevor ship-y stuff down the line, hence the relationship tag--the rating may hike up at some point too, idk yet *eyebrow waggle* Hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> (Also, fwiw, I envision Carson, which I've called Trevor's hometown, to be a rough equivalent to Carman, Manitoba. It's a really small town, only about 3,000 people and an hour away from a major air force base in Winnipeg. Pretty irrelevant, really, but thought I'd mention it in case anyone was curious!)


	2. Chapter 2

**OCTOBER 1986**  
 _MICHAEL_

"You still got an eye on the door, right, T?"

"Of course, _M_ —where the fuck else would I be looking?"

Michael turned back to the clerk, waving the nose of his pistol in the guy's face. "Unless you want to die behind that grimy-ass counter, I'd suggest you hurry the fuck up, pal!"

The clerk nodded, a small whimper escaping the back of his throat.

"Shit, fuck... M! Times up, bud!"

Michael looked back at Trevor with an annoyed sigh. He opened his mouth, ready to tell Trevor to relax, when Trevor suddenly ran past him and grabbed at his arm.

"Cop, parking lot. No lights, no sirens."

Michael dropped the bag he’d been holding in front of the clerk and went after Trevor. "Fucking beautiful."

They rushed through the back room of the 24/7, dodging crates and pallets as they went.

"Alleyway, c'mon," Trevor called, running towards a door on the far wall. "That fucking clerk better not talk."

Michael scoffed. "Nah, guy was scared shitless. He'll be cool."

They headed right in the alley, and managed to get ten feet away before a police siren pealed out.

"Fuck!" Trevor yelled, punctuating it with a shout. "Shoulda dropped him!"

"I ain't dropping a guy for no reason!"

"For no reason? What the fuck are we doing now, then? Training for a fucking triathlon?"

They turned right at the next corner, but came to a dead end, their footsteps thudding to a halt.

"Fuck!" Michael yelled. "We should've scouted around back here."

"We weren't exactly thinking we'd have to take this out back, though, huh." Trevor turned around, scanning behind them. "There, that fence. Up and over."

He patted Michael on the gut and then took off, launching himself at the chain link across the intersection and gracefully pulling himself over it. Michael sighed and ran after him, trying to jump as high as he could at the fence. He made it over easily, but without any of Trevor's grace.

They were subletting an apartment a few blocks away, and as they ran through the alleys ahead, Michael was thankful they'd hit a store in a city for once, rather than out in the sticks like they usually did. They hadn’t been able to get to the car, but at least they could go back in a day or two to get it, and there were a lot of alleys and sharp turns to cover their trail, instead of flat stretches of nothing.

When they reached the apartment, Trevor whipped the building door open and bolted up the stairs two at a time, leaving Michael to lock the door behind him. That was pretty typical of the way they worked—Trevor acting on impulse, with Michael cleaning up the trail after him.

Michael got to the top of the stairs and saw the apartment door was open too, and Trevor was sprawled out on his mattress on the floor.

"Are you allergic to closing doors or some shit?"

"I was leaving it open for you—ain't gonna close a door in your face; that's just rude."

Michael scoffed. "Not when there’re cops looking for us."

"Fuck cops."

"Yeah, so you always say. Beginning to wonder if you actually do."

Trevor gave a half-smile. "Don’t get jealous, now."

"Not a problem,” Michael said, emphasising each word. He tugged off his jacket and tossed it towards the door, where it landed in a pile. He moved over to the couch and flopped down, draping his leg over the arm. "How long we gonna keep doing this?"

Trevor propped himself up by an elbow. "Doing what? Robbing the poor minimum wage drones that get the overnight shifts at shitty convenience stores?"

"All of it, all of this small-time stuff."

"You show me the connect that pulls us up, I’ll be right there with you. Don’t you got anybody that you met inside?"

Michael levelled his eyes at Trevor. "You really want to work with someone who's already been locked up for pulling this exact kind of shit?"

"Well, fuck. I’m working with you, ain't I?"

"Whatever."

"Look. You want new blood? Fine, I’m good with that. But where are we gonna find it here? We’ve been in Shelby for a month now, and everyone else in this place is just pulling the same shit jobs we are. There’s no enterprise here, nothing to latch onto."

Michael frowned, chewing his lip. There had to be something. The bangers that ran drugs and guns, they had to be getting their stock from somewhere, right? There had to be a source and it wasn't going to be from somewhere far away either—transportation was too costly, too risky.

A few moments later, it came to him. "Got it."

Trevor hitched an eyebrow at Michael.

"We don't start with the guys on our level, or even one above us. That ain't gonna get us anywhere. We gotta go to the top, to the source."

"Really? You just gonna waltz over to, what? Hitchcock? Bradbury? Some other dead zone? And ask people oh-so-politely where they managed to find such lovely, potent rock in a fuckhole place like this?"

Michael scoffed. "Nah—that's how _you'd_ do it. I’ve got more finesse than that."

Trevor rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure, you're the big swinging dick in this operation, huh."

"No, it’s not like that. But this’ll work."

"Well, fuck, hop to it, you eager beaver. I can't wait to see what kinda trees you take down."

Michael lay back on the couch, tucking an arm behind his head. "It’ll be good, T. No more small-time shit, not anymore."

* * *

There were a couple of blocks, near the eastern side of town, controlled by one of the only gangs that operated in the area. Calling them a gang was probably a bit generous, Michael thought—they were a bunch of worn out old drunks who sold smoke and blow to the teenagers that went to the school nearby. But if there was any group weak enough for someone like Michael, with no reputation to bank on, to sniff around, it was them.

He set up a sort-of surveillance op from a park a short distance away, watching for the next re-up. It took a while—the guys weren't moving a lot of product—but after a couple days he got a lead.

Two bikers rolled up and made a drop, and Michael could tell by the patches on their leather cuts that they were members of the Mercy’s Hand Motorcycle Club, a club that had a large chapter in Shelby. He should’ve called that one—they were probably the only organisation in the area to have enough cash and clout to control any lines of distribution.

Michael knew that the Mercy’s Hand guys usually weren’t seen around in groups of more than two or three, so finding anyone with enough sway to toss him a job would take work. They sometimes hung around a bar a bit north of town, called the Five Point—he and Trevor had seen their bikes parked outside a few times. It was as good a place to start as any.

The next night, Michael went to Five Point. Trevor had wanted to come, probably out of some desire not to be left out of anything, if Michael had had to guess, but he’d told him not to—one guy was just someone passing through; two may have been a threat.

There weren’t any bikes parked out front of the bar when he showed up. It was still early, only a little past nine, so he hoped some guys would roll in later; coming back didn’t appeal much. He took a stool at the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey and a bottle of whichever beer was cheapest. He and Trevor had done okay lately, cash-wise, but never knowing when the next payday would come was always on the back of his mind, especially since their last job had been a bust.

He nursed the beer, taking casual glances around the dingy room. There were a couple of old TVs hung up above the bar, one showing nothing but static, and the other showing weeks-old baseball highlights—Michael wasn’t sure which was worse. There were a couple of old guys at the end of the bar, both just staring into the middle distance, not talking to each other.

Overall, it reminded him of the kind of place his dad used to hang around in at home, back in Elmdale. For most of Michael’s childhood, he’d go out after every paycheck, but by the time high school came around, it was nearly every day. His dad would show up at the local, shoot shit with the other drunks who were also always there, and then slither home and yell at Michael or smack his mom around a bit. Michael fucking hated being back in a place like that—any of the gross fucks in there could be his dad, and he found he despised them all for it.

He let out a sigh and finished his beer, signalling for a new bottle at the same time. There weren’t too many things he’d picked up from his old man, but knowing how to knock back a beer was one of them.

A few inches into his second bottle, some bikers finally showed. They strode through the bar, signalling at the bartender. The noise level pitched up right away, as they talked and joked with each other, coupled with the sound of hands slapping against leather-clad backs. Michael didn’t dare turn around to look at them yet, but he heard the sound of pool balls knocking against each other, so they were obviously setting up a game on one of the tables behind him.

He leaned back slightly to listen to what they were saying, only he couldn’t pick up anything of much use. It was a lot of senseless commotion but, Michael figured, even bikers probably didn’t always talk shop off the clock.

Instead, he tried to get a feel for who was most senior of the group—that would be the one he’d need to speak to. There was one voice that was a little louder than the rest, a little more commanding, and whoever he was, he didn’t talk often. Just a few clipped sentences here and there. Every guy Michael had ever known that had truly held power, and wasn’t just projecting, tended to keep his mouth shut: his dad, his coach, some of the guy’s he’d worked for back in Elmdale.

Hell, he’d even tried it himself on Trevor during that first job. It’d worked on him and he had a better nose for bullshit than anyone. Michael had been scared shitless that entire day—from when he’d first tucked the bricks of coke into his backpack, to when the guy he’d jacked the car from decked him, to when Trevor had smoked the guy in the eye. But he couldn’t let Trevor see just how shaken up he was—reputation and first impressions were everything. He’d learned that early on.

Michael took in a sharp breath and let it out in a huff before shooting back his whiskey. It burned its way down his throat and he hoisted himself off the barstool, grabbing his beer. He took the long path over to the bikers’ pool table, weaving past tables and chairs and the other, unoccupied pool table. He approached the bikers as if they were a pack of animals—no direct eye contact, feigned disinterest—but still when he neared, they noticed. They all stood a little taller, some crossing their arms, and the cajoling stopped.

“The fuck do you want?” one guy said. He was short, with a massive gut and ratty, curly hair. There were three red stars patched on his cut just over his heart, which must have been a rank, though Michael had no idea what sort.

Michael took a swig of his beer in an effort to seem nonchalant, despite the way his heart pounded in his chest. “Saw a group of like-minded individuals, thought I’d come by.”

A couple of the guys barked out in laughter.

“‘Like-minded?’ You in the life?” another asked, his voice thick with derision. He was tall, sallow-skinned, and about as skinny as the first guy was fat.

“In it? No. But I’ve always appreciated what clubs like yours stand for.”

“Ain’t that just fucking _lovely_ ,” the fat biker said.

“Yeah, real touching,” said a third guy—younger than the others by a lot, probably not much older than Michael. “I think I got a spare cut in the truck, why don’t we patch you in right now?”

Their laughter was easy, but their eyes bored into Michael all the same. He was out of ideas on how to spin his story, so he disguised his apprehension with another sip of beer.

The tall biker took a few steps towards Michael, letting him make out the patch on his cut—‘Sergeant at Arms.’ Michael didn’t know what that meant either, but it sounded about as intimidating as it was meant to.

“Take a walk, pup. This aint’ no place for pansies like you.”

The fat biker nodded and fell in step, crossing his arms.

“Hold up.”

It was the voice that Michael had heard earlier, the commanding one. Michael looked past two bikers in front of him, to see an older guy, leant up against the wall a few feet away. He was broad and thick, with slightly reddened skin and a shock of slicked-back white hair. The front of his cut was covered in patches—five red stars, a white skull, a few banners, and a green clover.

“Maybe we got work for an enterprising kinda guy. That sound like you, kid?”

Michael nodded slowly. “Yeah, sure does. I got a guy I’ve been working with. We’re new around here but not to the game.”

The leader cracked his knuckles and pushed away from the wall, moving forward. The other bikers shot looks between him and each other as they moved aside, obviously surprised.

“Alright, then. You know that old abandoned building over on Stoughton? Get you and your partner there, two days from now, four p.m.”

Michael nodded again. The biker held out a meaty hand and Michael took it.

The biker tightened his grip and tugged Michael forward. “No pieces—you guys show up all tooled up, it won’t end well for you. We’re gonna play nice. Got it?”

“Yeah, of course. Totally clean, I hear you.”

“Good dog,” said the tall biker, and the others laughed until the leader raised a fist up by his shoulder to stop them.

“Instructions will be waiting for you when you get there, so be on time.”

“Not a problem.”

The leader looked down his nose at Michael and held his hand a moment longer, before giving it a last, strong shake. “Good. Now fuck off out of here.”

Michael tipped the lip of his beer bottle at the bikers and turned towards the exit. He wanted to clench the hand the leader had just held into a fist, to replace the muscle memory with something he was actually in control of, but he waited until he was outside the bar.

* * *

“Are you _fucking_ serious? Fucking bikers?”

“Yeah, fucking bikers,” Michael said, mocking Trevor’s tone. “They’re the ones that run shit ‘round here.”

Trevor threw up his hands. “I don’t give a fuck _what_ they do around here, bikers are bad news.” He stood up off the couch and began pacing.

“What the hell is the problem here?”

“They’re scum, man! Slippery, and can’t be trusted for shit.”

“Oh, come on. How many bikers you ever worked with before?”

“None, but I know enough guys who’ve been fucked straight up the ass by their ilk before.”

Michael sighed, waving Trevor off and moving a few steps away. “I don’t know, man. These guys seemed cool.”

Trevor barked out a short laugh. “‘Cool?’ Give me a fucking break. Fine, what are the terms?”

Michael shrugged. “Nothing crazy. Two days from now, four o’clock. Just show up and there’ll be guys with instructions waiting for us. No guns or anything. It’ll be peaceful.”

“They said that? No guns?” Trevor rolled his eyes when Michael nodded. “Jesus fuck, Michael. Don’t be so _naive_!”

“No, _you_ stop being so paranoid! It’s probably just something real mundane, and he told me no pieces so that we don’t spook the guys waiting for us.”

Trevor shook his head, raking a hand through his shaggy hair. “Did he ask you anything about cash? How much we got, how much we usually pull?”

“No, nothing like that. What, you think they’re gonna rob us or some shit?”

“Don’t sound so incredulous, you fuck. These are _bikers_ , it wouldn’t be so out of the ordinary.”

“Look,” Michael said, holding up a hand in an attempt to halt Trevor’s pacing. “You don’t gotta trust them, but can you at least trust me? You told me to get out there, to find us something worthwhile, and that’s what I’ve done, okay? Fuckin’ A...”

“Don’t you ‘fuckin’ A’ me, you Midwestern sad-sack.”

Michael laughed, shaking his head. “That’s a ‘yes’ then? You’ll play along?”

Trevor growled, drawing it out into a groan. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fine. I’ll trust _you_ , bro. but I ain’t gonna just bend over and take what they dish out, got it? They act _at all_ hinky, I’m gone.”

Michael went to the fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer, tossing one at Trevor and popping the top off the other on the lip of the kitchen counter. “I got a good feeling about this one, Trev.”

“Yeah, well.” Trevor paused for a long pull of beer. “Better feel that feeling a little harder, to cover the both of us.”

“Jesus Christ,” Michael muttered, chuckling into his bottle as he raised it to his lips. “Give it a rest. Am I gonna have to listen to this for another two days?”

Trevor sneered, but then laughed a little after a moment. “Until I feel I’ve gotten my point across, yeah.”

* * *

The abandoned building on Stoughton was an old self-storage facility that’d been left standing long after the business had shuttered. It was narrow but deep, shaped like an L and one-storey tall. The first thing Michael noticed, though, was the lack of bikes parked outside. It was odd—of course it was—but his brain immediately started supplying explanations, and he decided that Trevor’s paranoia had finally rubbed off on him.

“Well, this looks fucking welcoming,” Trevor mumbled as he switched off the car’s engine. “We must be early to the party, eh, bud?”

“Relax. They probably just didn’t park out front, to avoid attention or something.”

Trevor didn’t say anything as they got out of the car. He walked a few paces ahead, spinning his key ring around his forefinger. He may have been keeping his mouth shut, but Michael knew exactly what he was thinking. Truthfully, he’d been half-expecting Trevor to pull out at the last minute, so the fact that he was there at all had to stand for something. It’d been a while since Michael had felt like anyone had had his back; it was unfamiliar, but welcome.

“We just waltzing in the front door?” Trevor asked, once he reached the main entrance of the building.

“Guess so. They didn’t say.”

Trevor reached forward and pulled on the handle—the door opened easily, and he held it for Michael, waving him through. “After you, fearless leader.”

Michael shook his head. “How ‘bout you stick to that whole seen-and-not-heard thing, here? Don’t want you freaking anybody out.”

“Yeah,” Trevor said with a scoff. “Like I’ll be the ultimate creep at this meet. You know those patches they wear? What they gotta do to earn some of them?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

“Dead chicks, M. And that’s just, like... the tip of the iceberg type of shit.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Trevor, shut up.”

“Hey—no names, man. I know these are your new best friends and all, but protocol. Please.”

Michael waved Trevor off and continued into the building. Soon, he and Trevor came to a corner, and to the right was a long hallway lined with storage lockers. The only light came from fluorescent bank lighting along the tops of each wall, a few bulbs flickering weakly.

Michael moved a few steps ahead of Trevor, and then turned around, hands on his hips. Trevor opened his mouth to speak, but then a creak came from somewhere over his shoulder and he was caught off guard.

Trevor raised an exaggerated eyebrow at Michael and then slowly looked behind him, bringing an arm up in a preemptive block. They both kept an eye on the direction that the noise had come from for a few moments, but no other sounds came.

“Five minutes, M,” Trevor said, facing Michael again. “That’s what I’m giving you, before I get back in that car and peel outta here.”

“Yeah, yeah...”

Michael turned back to look down the hallway before him, and was about to go lean up against one of the lockers when suddenly three lockers a few feet ahead burst open, their metal doors clanging loudly.

Three guys in MHMC cuts jumped out, yelling and whooping, two wielding tire irons and the other, a baseball bat. A fourth guy came running up behind Trevor, whipping a chain against the cement floor as he moved.

“The fuck—?” Michael stammered, taking several steps away from the three bikers in front of him. He felt Trevor close at his back.

“Surprise, motherfuckers!” one biker shouted; Michael recognised him as the tall Sergeant at Arms from the other night.

“Aww, shit,” said one of the other bikers in front of Michael, a guy he didn’t recognise. “Guess no one told you this was a _surprise_ party, huh?”

“M,” Trevor said, his voice rough and low.

Michael didn’t know what to do, what to say. The four bikers were circled around them, sneering and weapons at the ready. The only exit he knew of was in the direction they’d just come from. He fisted his hands, flexing them a few times before bringing them up in front of his chest.

The bikers laughed, and the one with the baseball bat slammed it against one of the lockers nearby, startling Michael a little. “Yeah, you wanna do this, jockstrap? I mean, it ain’t gonna be a fair fight, but if that’s what you’re into...”

“We don’t have any cash on us, guys,” Michael said, fanning out the last three fingers of each fist and turning his palms towards the bikers in deference.

“Oh, we don’t want your money, boys—we ain’t hard up for that stuff, not at _all_.”

“We got nothin’, alright? No green, no drugs, no guns!” Trevor shouted. “So what the fuck do you want?”

“It’s a party,” said the fourth biker, closest to Trevor. “Why else does anybody go to a party? To have fun, right?”

Michael was drenched in sweat now, his cheeks burning and his chest tight. He’d take the bikers on if he had to, but it was everything that would come after he quickly lost the fight that had him scared. He kept glancing at the patches on the bikers’ cuts, remembering what Trevor had said about what they did to earn them. Maybe one of these guys was an initiate and this was some sort of hazing thing. Or maybe this was just was how they got their rocks off. He had no fucking clue.

He heard Trevor breathing heavily next to him, and he felt guilty. Whatever happened to them in the next few minutes, it was going to be his fault, and after he’d insisted that Trevor trust him, too.

Then suddenly, Trevor let out a sharp yell and Michael looked over his shoulder just as Trevor’s boot connected with the centre of the fourth biker’s chest with a heavy thud. The biker staggered back against the lockers, dropping the chain he’d held.

Trevor took off at a full clip, not bothering to call back to Michael, but he hadn’t needed to—Michael saw the opportunity the moment the biker had stumbled, and was close on Trevor’s heels. The three other bikers gave chase, shouting after them, and Michael hoped against all fucking hope that none of them were carrying a gun.

He and Trevor rounded the corner that led to the hallway before the main entrance, and the bikers’ shouting died off into sharp laughter and overblown, sarcastic crying. Michael tried to ignore the pang of embarrassment he felt and focused instead on getting out of the building.

After reaching the car, Trevor gunned the engine and drove off before Michael had fully made it inside. He fell to the side, bracing an elbow on the centre armrest as he pulled the door shut behind him. He bit back the urge to yell at Trevor for pulling away like that, and a little just for the sake of yelling, but instead settled into the seat.

Trevor drove in tense silence for a few minutes before he let out a frustrated growl. “Argh, fuck, Michael! What did I fucking tell you?”

Michael sighed and leaned his elbow on the door, resting his temple against his fist. “I know.”

“Yeah, I hope you do, you fuck. Some job, getting chumped by a bunch of punk-ass bikers who are apparently hard-up for entertainment.”

“I know,” Michael repeated. “I’m sorry.”

“Use your head next time, man! We’re two kids, practically; at least compared to those leathery old dinosaurs. We got no crew, no rep, nothing behind our names except the fucking wind at our backs.” Trevor swore and slammed his palms against the steering wheel.

“Yeah, but how else are we gonna build that rep, if we don’t try to branch out?”

Trevor huffed. He sped up and shifted gears, running through a red light. “Kind of a moot fucking point in this case, isn’t it?”

“Look—we made it out, right? We didn’t lose anything.” Michael was starting to feel indignant, resenting how angry Trevor was. He was mad at himself too, but having Trevor pissed off at him felt like too much weight.

“Not good enough! We didn’t lose anything, but we also gained nothing! Except maybe a rep for being gullible enough to fall for what must be the oldest trick in the prick biker handbook.”

“Oh, give it a rest—“

“No! Fuck you. We need something _real_ , Michael; to start making moves. I’m sick of this rookie shit.” Trevor sped around a corner, but then he slowed down to a somewhat normal speed afterwards. Michael took it as a good sign. “Next job, I’m in charge of.”

“Right, yeah, like you’ll be able to come up with much better?”

“Well, I can guarantee that it’ll be something that at least pays, alright? And it sure as hell ain’t gonna involve an ambush, at least not one where we’re the suckers.”

Michael scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Good fucking luck, buddy. Knowing you, we’ll be back to hitting up 24/7s five miles out of town within a week.”

They reached the apartment a few silent minutes later. After switching off the engine, Trevor grabbed the keys and hopped out of the car, leaving the driver’s side door open. Michael sighed, slamming both car doors shut as he followed behind Trevor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this chapter came from the conversation Trevor and Franklin have during Hood Safari, when Trevor's telling Franklin that he shouldn't deal with gangs, since that's "relying on the criminal element to be trustworthy." I figured that sentiment had to come from somewhere, from some sort of personal experience, so I wanted to flesh that out. And then I thought, why not make the 'criminal element' in this case be bikers, and stoke Trevor's hatred for The Lost even more. Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter--a familiar face will show up in the next update!


	3. Chapter 3

**JUNE 1987  
** _TREVOR_

It was time to step things up. Trevor and Michael had been doing the two-bit criminal thing for nearly two years, shitty job after shitty job. They'd gotten smarter, better—planning things out, considering more than one possible outcome. But their pay grade was still well below the amount of work they were putting in, Trevor figured. It was just good business: figuring out how to do as little work as possible for the most cash.

But with just the two of them, there wasn't much they could do. They'd made a few connections, here and there, but nobody major. Not that it'd matter much anyway—Michael always insisted they hightail it as soon as they pulled a job. Trevor thought that was fair in principle, but the reality was, hopping from shithole town to shithole town was hell on keeping up contacts. They needed to do something, to change their formula, to break out of the comfort zone they'd ended up in. Complacency was for the meek, and Trevor? Well, he was the very _antithesis_ of meek.

What was that bullshit line? 'The meek shall inherit the earth'? Whatever—the meek could sit back on their ever-expanding asses in their mediocre existences and _wait_ for their inheritance. Trevor was gonna take his by force, and he was gonna take the next guy's too, if he could swing it.

"I still don't know what you think we're gonna get away with in a casino.”

They were standing just past the entrance in the main room, with its rows and rows of slot machines.

"Seedy operations, Michael—all of them." Trevor gave a sweeping gesture towards the blinking, pinging machines. "They exist to serve one purpose: to suck every last possible cent out of the weak-minded, weak-willed drones who you see before your very eyes."

Michael scoffed. "So, what? You're gonna play fucking Robin Hood now?"

"Don't be obtuse."

" _'Obtuse?'_ Did you start doing crosswords behind my back?"

"No, you porky fuck—I _read_ , alright? Unlike you. I bet you ain't picked up anything more enlightening than a titty mag in your life."

"Hey, now—titty mags can be pretty enlightening."

Trevor paused to consider, and then nodded. "That's fair... Anyway, my point is, places like this ain't no different than the scumbag dealers who set up shop a half-block away from detox clinics."

"You want to run one on a casino? This casino?"

"That's the general idea, yes."

"How?" Michael crossed his arms, cocking his head to the side.

"Well, that's what we're here for." Trevor started moving towards the first rows of slot machines. "We're gonna take a look around, see what kind of opportunities present themselves."

Michael sighed and set after Trevor. "Fine... but promise me we won't rob any old ladies, okay?"

"Please, M—I do have some sense of morality, okay? Besides..." Trevor paused and surveyed some of the people at the slots. "A lot of these women remind me of my mother..."

"Well, fuck... even better."

"Now, you take the last five rows, I'll take the first five. Check for obvious stuff: camera placement, security guard positions—"

Michael held up a hand to interrupt Trevor. "We've cased joints before, remember?"

Trevor frowned and pushed Michael's hand away. "Just go."

The layout was pretty typical, from the few casinos Trevor had been through. Gambling was for the weak, he thought—as evidenced by all the grey-hairs on the machines. Sure, some people made off with jackpots, but that high stake shit was rare, and definitely not going down anywhere in North Yankton.

The security seemed thin, too. There were cameras at the ends of each aisle, but they were all pointed straight down the centre—there would be blind spots to the sides. They'd likely be able to doctor up the middle four machines, give or take, without anything being picked up. Trevor noted two security guards too, in stationary positions. It might take more recon to see if they ever did a sweep, but for the ten minutes Trevor spent walking through the rows, each guy barely moved.

After he had passed through his aisles, he made his way over to Michael, who was in the last row of his section. As he got closer, he saw that Michael was talking to someone who was playing one of the machines—a kid, who barely looked old enough to drive a car, let alone waltz into a casino.

"All I'm saying is, slots are pointless," Trevor heard Michael say as he came up next to him. "They rig the fuck out of them; you'll never win more than half your money back."

The kid smirked and hit the big green 'play' button. "I wouldn't be so sure, if I were you."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure we're all riveted," Trevor said, poking his head between Michael and the kid, and grabbing Michael's arm. "But, M, we gotta go."

Michael nodded and waved the kid off. "Enjoy your pocket change, man."

"So? What'd you notice?"

Michael shrugged. "Cameras, but all facing each other. Couple of guards, likely underpaid and overworked."

"Good, good—same on my end. Should be a piece of cake, then."

"Yeah, but what are we gonna actually _do_?"

Trevor shrugged. "That's the hard part—I'll figure something out, just gotta brainstorm a bit."

A few minutes later, the bells of a jackpot being won pealed through the casino. Trevor and Michael turned around, looking to see where the commotion was coming from. Trevor couldn't give a shit how much anybody actually won—whatever it was would pale in comparison to what they'd be hitting the place up for in the next few days. Some poor sap had inevitably dumped more quarters than they could afford into a machine and had been paid out a fraction of it all, but they'd never stop to do the math, because of all the blinking lights and attention.

Pathetic.

Trevor returned his attention to taking inventory of the security presence on the other half of the floor, until Michael smacked him in the arm.

"T, look—it's that kid." Michael pointed ahead through the crowd.

Trevor followed his finger. There was that poindexter, literally pushing his coke-bottle glasses further up his face, while a gaggle of old ladies flocked around him.

"You think he actually won anything worthwhile?"

Trevor scoffed. "Of course not. You know how those things work."

Michael nodded, keeping his eye on the kid. "Wait—the ushers, they're pointing him to the cash cage."

That sparked Trevor's interest. Handpays never happened on the slots, not even with a so-called jackpot. " _Now_ we're talking."

"Yeah," Michael said. "Let's go see what's up."

Trevor and Michael made their way to the cash cage, hanging off to the side. Michael pretended to care about the brochures going on about all that beautiful North Yankton had to offer—deforested national parks and some giant beaver; that was about it, as far as Trevor was concerned. Trevor, meanwhile, kept the corner of his eye on the kid.

The clerk paid him out in cash. She must have handed over at least four, maybe five thousand dollars, Trevor figured. Still less than he hoped to score himself, but not exactly pocket change, either. He had to know the kid's deal.

After taking his payout, the kid turned towards the casino exit. Trevor noticed a slight limp in his step too. He really was a sorry specimen. Trevor grabbed Michael's shoulder and set off after the kid.

Trevor waited until they were in the parking lot, and then took a few long strides to come up next to the kid. "Hey, friend."

The kid looked up at Trevor with his buggy eyes and stopped walking, tucking the envelope of cash into his back pocket, and making a very obvious show of it. "I wouldn't bother. Every inch of this parking lot is on camera right now."

"We ain't gonna rob you," Trevor said, holding up his hands.

"We've just got a few questions, that's all," Michael added.

The kid nodded. "Right, sure. I saw you casing the machines in there. I wondered if you'd come find me again."

Trevor frowned—he’d thought they were being pretty subtle, splitting up and everything. Then again, it _was_ Michael who was in the same row as the kid... that explained a lot.

"Either way," the kid continued, "I'm not telling you anything."

Trevor opened his mouth, ready to bark at him, when Michael put hand on Trevor's shoulder and spoke up instead.

"Fine, that's fine—we get that. But, I mean, that was a lot of money for a fucking slot machine."

The kid crossed his arms. "Why are you so interested, anyway?"

"Because," Trevor said, "we're in the business of _making_ money, friend. You could say we happen to land where creativity and profitability meet."

Michael rolled his eyes. "What he means is, it seems like the three of us might be able to swing something good, if we worked together."

"I don't know you, either of you, and I don't work with anyone I don't know."

Trevor scoffed. "Well, that's some nice fucking logic—how do you ever find anyone to work with then?"

The kid levelled his eyes at Trevor. "I don't."

Trevor growled at the back of his throat. This little pissant nerdball was pushing every button he had, and the urge to rip into him was getting harder to ignore.

Michael must have sensed Trevor's anger, because he clapped Trevor on the shoulder and pulled him back a step. "Alright, fine—we've got something pretty significant in the works, here, and with your help, it could be something major, but if you don't want a cut? Well..." Michael turned his back, pulling Trevor along with him.

The crafty bastard. That’s why Trevor liked working with Michael. The car was parked a few blocks behind them, but the kid couldn't know that. Michael was dangling everything like a carrot on a stick.

"Hey," the kid said after a moment.

Trevor and Michael paused and then turned around in unison.

"How much do you usually pull? On an average job."

Trevor scoffed. "We do pretty well, okay?" Like he was going to let this child judge his and Michael's prowess based on a dollar figure—skill and payout were not directly correlated, after all.

"Right. See, if you were really raking it in, you'd be a lot more apt to brag about it. You need me more than I first thought."

"Listen, we ain’t answering to someone who probably still has most of their fucking milk teeth—"

"Trevor! Chill. Look, kid, we'd love to hear your ideas, we really would, but maybe not here? Somewhere a little more... off the grid."

The kid paused for a moment, rearranging his glasses. "Okay, fine. I'll bite, for an hour or two. Where?"

"The Pinetree Motel, off Highway 37? You know it?"

"Everybody knows that shithole."

"Good. We'll meet you there. Room 223."

* * *

It took the kid a long time to get to the motel—so long that Trevor had become convinced he wasn't going to show at all. But he did, and he'd taken a fucking bus, saying that he couldn't drive. Trevor had shot Michael a withering look at that; this was the kid they were going to hang their next job on? Some baby-faced wimp that couldn't drive. He'd be deadweight at best, Trevor had decided.

After the kid had gotten settled on the threadbare couch in the room, Trevor went to the mini-fridge under the TV and pulled out three bottles of beer. He threw one to Michael, and then tipped the top of another at the kid, cocking an eyebrow in question.

He shook his head and Trevor sighed, tossing the bottle back into the fridge. It was red flags everywhere with this kid, as far as Trevor was concerned.

Michael stared at Trevor for a moment and then took a sip of his beer. "Let's start with your name."

"Crest. Lester Crest."

"Great. I'm Michael Townley, that's Trevor Philips."

Lester looked from Michael to Trevor, then back to Michael. "What's this casino job you've got in mind?"

Michael opened his mouth to speak, but Trevor interrupted him, harshly clearing his throat. "I'll handle this one, M—it _was_ my idea, after all. It's simple—all the cameras on those slots face each other, no deviation, and there's these blind spots, right. So, we rig up the three, maybe four machines in the middle of each row and make off like bandits."

Trevor smiled to himself; it was pretty impressive, he thought. Michael was nonplussed as ever, of course, but he had a hard time thinking outside the box anyway. But what Trevor hadn't anticipated was Lester's reaction. The kid was shaking his fucking head, as if what Trevor had been planning wasn't almost exactly what the kid had just pulled on one dinky machine. And he'd even had to pay tax on his payout too, probably—Trevor wasn't interested in that shit, not at all.

"Glad to see we found somebody with a bit of sense," Michael said, giving Lester a slight nod.

"That would never work," Lester said. "It takes five minutes to compromise one of those slots, and that's for someone who’s practiced, done it before—so add a minute or even two to be safe. And that's forty machines between two, or three, people. You'd need at least one and a half hours to get through every one, and even if you dropped it to just thirty machines, that's still an hour and change. Those security guards are useless, but they're not blind."

Michael let out a sharp laugh, clapping a palm against his beer bottle. "Well, fuck me."

"Yeah, exactly—fuck you," Trevor mumbled.

"I'm working on my own thing. Fully planned, all drawn up, every angle considered. But it's ambitious, too much work for one guy. Plus it requires gun work, and well, that's not exactly my forte."

"That sounds alright," Michael said, nodding. "What is it?"

"A bank. Well, a credit union, technically—the Farmer's Credit and Trust branch, over on 16th. It's small, barely staffed, but also the only bank within a ten block radius, so it should have a decent amount on deposit. Everybody cooperates, we could clear forty, maybe fifty thousand."

Trevor frowned. He wanted to stay away from large scale cash grabs, after that check cashing joint job went wrong a few years back. But fifty stacks... that was probably more money than Michael or Trevor could afford to shake their heads at.

Not that that stopped Michael. "You're insane," he said with a scoff. "The three of us, taking down a bank branch?"

"Well, two. It wouldn't make sense for me to go, I'd slow you down."

"Isn't that fucking convenient for you..." Trevor tipped his head back and finished off the last of his beer, tossing the empty bottle in the general direction of the trash can near the bathroom door.

"It's ambitious, like I said. But I've mapped this out, and it could work."

"What about the cops? Anybody in that branch sets off an alarm and we'll have a big problem."

"That's why it's a good hit—it's ridiculously small, compared to some of the other banks around here. Finishing their donuts will be more important than getting over there right away. With a good getaway, you'd probably be out of the area before they make the car."

"No drivers. We ain't got any connections around here," Trevor paused, giving Michael a pointed look.

Lester looked between Michael and Trevor, his expression cautious. "Okay... maybe if you leave the car running..."

"I don't know, T. This sounds like more risk than it's worth."

Trevor nodded, considering. Michael had a point—it _was_ risky. Trevor could do the driving, that'd be no problem, but there were a lot of other variables. But with that kind of payout, he and Michael could maybe sit tight for a little while and spend more than a couple of weeks in one place. And the bragging rights wouldn't be too shitty either; their reputations definitely needed the boost.

"Look, just think about it, at least. Come by my place before we move on anything, you can see just how much I've got worked out on this. It's a very... visual thing, I can't describe it. But it's solid."

Trevor looked at Michael, who was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. He was picking at the label of his beer bottle. Trevor was starting to feel anxious, impatient—he was waiting for Michael to say something, to give some sort of indication of what he was thinking, but instead he was just fiddling with that stupid dog-earned corner of paper. Fuck it—if they were going to do this instead of the casino job, then it was going to be Trevor's decision.

"Fine," Trevor said, and Michael looked up suddenly. Trevor was expecting him to interject, but he kept quiet. "We'll come check out this master plan of yours, and go from there. If it's as good as you say, then fine."

Lester nodded; Trevor could tell he was biting back a smile. How young was this fucking kid anyway?

"Okay, yeah, good." Lester rose, pulling himself up by the armrest of the couch. "I'm on 7th, near Porter. We should do it midweek, midday, so... Wednesday, before noon?"

Trevor nodded, following Lester to the door. "We'll be there."

He reached behind Lester and swung the door open, letting him pass through. He leaned his upper body against the door frame, bracing an arm on the door, and called after the kid.

"How'd you fix up those slots anyway?"

Lester shrugged. "There's this panel on the side, just below the fake arm. Pops right open with a flat-tip screwdriver. The mechanism that determines the frequency and size of payouts is just inside that panel. It's an old model—most casinos are using something newer these days, and they haven't picked up on the flaw yet, as evidenced by how this afternoon went."

Trevor huffed, impressed. He waved Lester off and closed the door behind him. The kid knew his shit at least, even if he was kind of hapless. Dinking around in the back of a slot machine was a lot different than coordinating a bank job, but an eye for detail was nothing to laugh at, Trevor knew that much. He headed towards the bathroom, giving Michael a light smack upside the head as he passed.

"This'll be a good one, Mikey. Start thinking about how you're gonna spend your cut. But maybe come up with something a little more creative than just pros and blow this time, okay?"

Michael swatted Trevor's hand away and barked out a sharp "go fuck yourself" as Trevor closed the bathroom door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**JUNE 1987  
** _MICHAEL_

"Tell me this kid doesn't still live with his parents..."

Michael chuckled. Lester was standing at the end of a driveway, waving him and Trevor down. The house was small and quaint, complete with pale blue clapboard and clean white trim. There were several flowerbeds along the footpath to the front door, all well-maintained.

"I mean, look at that mailbox," Trevor continued, his tone incredulous. "A pelican? For fuck's sake."

"Everybody's gotta start somewhere, right? What mom and pop don't know..." Michael let his sentence trail off and he looked over at Trevor. He was shaking his head, his eyes closed behind his sunglasses.

Trevor parked the car a few lengths ahead of Lester's driveway. Michael hesitated before walking away, eying the guns stashed on the floor of the backseat, mostly covered by two grey duffle bags.

"It's really stupid, leaving these here."

Trevor scoffed. "Yeah, it fucking is, but carrying them into that gingerbread house is a lot more stupid."

"Gentlemen," Lester said, taking a few slow steps towards Michael and Trevor as they approached. "Good timing."

Trevor waved Lester off and Michael nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. He wanted to get off the street. They already stuck out in such an uppity neighbourhood, and he was sure there were several sets of busybody eyes watching them; no sense in giving them more time to get a good look at their faces.

"Let's just get a move on, okay?" Trevor sounded just as impatient as Michael felt.

Lester nodded and led Michael and Trevor into the house, moving to a door around the side. They followed Lester inside and down a flight of creaky stairs into an unfinished basement. It reminded Michael of the house he'd grown up in—mostly; if he'd grown up in a less blue collar neighbourhood, anyway. He felt uneasy, thinking of how long it'd been since he'd been home, since he'd seen his mother. Four years was a long time. Michael huffed and buried the guilt, knowing he'd only dig it up another time. He wasn't going to be the one to fuck up a whole job, just because some kid's basement made him miss his mother.

The room was sparsely furnished, with a small red couch and matching armchair in the middle, and a large blank corkboard set up on a stand near the far wall. Lester moved over to the corkboard and carefully lifted it off the stand, turning it around and replacing it. The other side was covered in Polaroids, little slips of coloured contraction paper and duct tape labels.

"What is this, art project show and tell?" Trevor scoffed, moving slowly towards Lester.

Lester chuckled, tentative and quiet, and adjusted his glasses. "It looks rudimentary, I know, but it's an effective method."

"Rudimentary? It looks fucking _lame_."

Michael bit back a laugh. He agreed with Trevor, but he'd also seen the way Lester's jaw had hardened at the jab, and if they were going to do this thing, somebody had to be on the kid's side. Michael cleared his throat and took point between Trevor and Lester.

"Just go over the plan, alright? We ain't got time for chit-chat."

Lester nodded and turned towards the board. "Like I said the other day, the branch is small and very lightly staffed. There are three cameras: one to the left of the front door, one in the centre behind the teller counter, and one in the back right corner. I've made three visits, at various points of the day and the week, and each time there hasn't been more than two tellers and one manager out front. There's no accounting for other operational or back office staff, but the risk of them coming to save the day is decidedly low, given the nature of their job."

"Desk jockeys," Trevor interjected, shaking his head.

Lester shot Trevor a look from the corner of his eye and then continued. "Right. Anyway, the tellers keep a float of cash in the drawers at their wickets, and the manager has a key to an external vault in a cash cage behind the teller counter. I haven't been able to deduce what the threshold is to necessitate a withdrawal from that vault, but that shouldn't matter given that you, uh... won't be asking nicely. The vault needs to be opened by the manager and one of the tellers, so bear that in mind when you instruct them to open it."

"Do we really need to bother with the cash cage thing?" Michael asked. "Seems like a lot of extra time to be spending in there."

"If you want to walk out with as much as originally promised, then yes. While we don't know how much the tellers have immediate access to, any branch with this kind of set up is going to keep the majority of its cash in that cash cage. Skip that part, and you'll leave at least sixty, maybe seventy five percent on the table."

"Shit," Michael said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"We can handle that, M. Wave the nose of that pistol you got in the car in their faces and they'll hop right to it."

Michael paused, eyes scanning the corkboard. There was a big difference between fifty thousand dollars and twenty thousand dollars. He and Trevor were good, Trevor was right about that, but how much risk was it all really worth?

"You're positive," Michael said after a moment, "that the police response will be slow?"

Lester let out a deep breath and put his hands on his hips. "It's an uncontrollable variable, there's no way I can be 'positive' about it. But, as I said, it's a small branch with little staff—if you keep all of them occupied from the start, they won't have time to hit an alarm or make a phone call."

"Here's how we do this," Trevor said, waving a hand in front of the board. "I take out the first two cameras and I deal with the tellers; you deal with the cage and the last camera in that back corner. Whoever finishes up first keeps the staff occupied until we're both done, and then we drive like fucking bats outta hell."

Trevor had the same gleam in his eye that he got when they were about to take on something big. Convenience and liquor stores were like their nine-to-five now, boring shit they did to survive week to week. But whenever there was something more within reach, something with a risk to reward ratio so out of whack that it set MIchael's nerves on edge, that's when Trevor got excited. And it was infectious, Michael had to admit. The thought of just the two of them hitting up an entire bank branch by themselves, and getting away with it, was some heady shit. Michael prided himself on being level-headed and even-keeled, but at the end of the day, he was still an adrenaline junkie criminal, just the same as Trevor.

"Yeah. Yeah, T—that sounds like the plan."

Trevor grinned and clapped once, and then clapped Michael on the shoulder. "Atta boy, Mikey."

Michael put his hands on his hips and looked at the board again. It was pretty extensive, he had to give Lester that much. Maybe if he and Trevor had put that much effort into some of their earlier jobs, they'd have been a lot more successful; though he severely doubted whether either of them had the patience or attention span.

"Where'd you pick this system up, anyway?" Michael asked. "This some university-level shit or something?"

Lester scoffed, shaking his head. "Why would I bother with university? Nothing but a waste of time and money. No, I'm entirely self-taught."

Trevor huffed. "Are you even old enough for university?"

"Not technically, no, but I graduated early. I could've been halfway through a degree by now, but again, why bother?"

Trevor leaned in towards Lester, his eyes narrowing. "Just how fucking old are you, boy genius?"

Lester held Trevor's eye for a moment, and then cleared his throat before turning and taking a few steps away. "Seventeen."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Michael said under his breath, shaking his head. His gut had taken a nosedive. They were less than hour away from storming into a bank and their plan was based entirely around the work of a damn teenager.

* * *

There were seven cars in the parking lot of the Farmer's Credit and Trust branch when Trevor and Michael pulled up, just past one o'clock. Seven was a fucking lot of cars, as far as Michael was concerned. Accounting for the three front-of-house staff they were expecting, that left at least four variables, four people that the two of them may need to keep an eye on. Or worse.

Michael took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. He could sense Trevor looking at him, but he didn't want to meet his eye; he wasn't in the mood for more jabs and more teasing.

Instead, Trevor's voice was quiet and even. "Hey," he said. "I know you're looking at these cars and trying not to shit your pants—"

Michael started to hold up a hand to interrupt Trevor, but he kept talking.

"I _know_ , because I am too. But you know what, man? We’ve got those pieces in the backseat, and whether there's seven people or seventeen people in there, I'm willing to bet none of them have what we got. And I'm fully fucking sure that, even if somehow someone does, they ain't gonna be as good with it as we are."

"I don't wanna kill anybody, T."

"Yeah, and neither do I, but that's not what I'm talking about, is it? I'm saying we're the big dogs here, we're the ones calling the shots. This is what we've been working up to, Mikey—we've got this."

That Trevor felt so confident—or at least _sounded_ so confident—helped Michael breathe a little easier.

Not that Trevor was waiting for any sort of signal. He drove the car around to the side of the building, angling it towards an exit in the parking lot that fed out onto a side street. Trevor turned off the ignition but left the auxiliary engine running and pulled the handbrake before pocketing the keys. That was smart, Michael thought—all they'd need to do after getting back to the car would be to throw off the brake and flip the ignition, instead of waiting for the engine to turn over. It was a fast car too—some poor sap's Sabre that they'd jacked from the mall parking lot on the other side of town.

Michael reached into the backseat and grabbed the guns and the duffle bags. He handed Trevor his shotgun, and then tucked his own pistol into the front of his pants. They took the ski masks stashed inside the duffle bags and pulled them on, Trevor adjusting the way his shaggy hair sat underneath.

"Ready, M?"

"Yeah, T."

Trevor barked out a sharp shout and then barrelled out of the car, taking long, quick strides towards the branch and Michael jogged to keep in step, waves of adrenaline starting to course strong through his veins.

Trevor kicked the front door of the branch open, immediately looking up and taking a shot at the security camera on his left. It took Michael a moment to get his bearings once inside, his ears ringing slightly from being so close to the shotgun blast, but he shook it off quickly. There were two tellers, as expected, and one customer. Both of the tellers were young girls with maybe forty five years between them, and both blanched the moment Michael and Trevor had barged in.

Trevor made quick work of the customer—a middle-aged woman who burst into tears almost right away—telling her to hit the ground, but she was practically already there before he'd even opened his mouth. With the customer squared away, Trevor shot out the security camera above the teller counter and both of the tellers screamed, ducking down slightly and covering their heads.

"Calm down, kids!" Trevor shouted, balancing the butt of the shotgun on his hip. "Ain't no one who needs to get hurt today, if everybody plays along!"

Michael jogged past Trevor and hopped over the teller counter. It was kinda lame, but clearing that counter gave him more confidence than the pistol in his hand did—it waist high, and the only exercise Michael got lately was running from point A to B during jobs.

Michael being behind the counter sent the tellers into more of a panic, but he ignored them for a moment to focus on the security camera at the back of the branch. It was further than he'd anticipated, but he didn't have much choice. He brought up the pistol, lining up the shot carefully, and pulled the trigger, taking the thing out in a spray of sparks.

Messed up as it all was, he was beginning to feel pretty fucking good.

The manager—a guy, overweight, maybe thirty-five—was standing near the cash cage, frozen in place. His eyes were like saucers as he watched Michael, and Michael took an easy breath; at least he wouldn't be causing any trouble. Michael looked over at the tellers, whom Trevor was guiding with the nose of his gun, watching as they worked on emptying the wickets in the counter.

"You," Michael barked, looking back at the manager and pointing his pistol at the cash cage. "Get this shit open."

It took a moment for the manager to react, but when he did, he nodded quickly and shuffled towards a door on the side of the cash cage. He cleared his throat, calling to one of the tellers—Katie, her name was—and waving her over. Michael took a step back and watched as the manager and the teller worked on opening the small vault, keeping one eye on Trevor at his left.

"All good here, M," Trevor called after a few minutes. Michael glanced over, and he was holding onto the teller's arm over the counter, the duffle slung across his chest and the shotgun on his hip.

Michael nodded and tapped the nose of his pistol on the Plexiglas of the cash cage, waving it in encouragement at the manager when he looked up. The manager let out a shaky breath and started moving more quickly, sweeping the bundles of bills from inside the vault into Michael's duffle bag.

A moment later the manager stood up and handed the bag to Michael. "T-that's it, everything," he said, his voice breaking slightly.

Michael took the bag and slung it over his shoulder. He flashed the manager a quick smile, forgetting that the ski mask was covering his mouth, and then jogged back to the teller counter. He hopped over it, a little less gracefully than before, and smacked Trevor on the shoulder.

Trevor nodded and let go of the teller. "Well done, darlin'. You have a good rest of your day!" he said, before following Michael out of the branch.

They ran together towards the car, feet slapping against the pavement. Michael was breathing hard, but all he felt was excitement. He and Trevor piled into the car, and they took off, the peel of the tires against the asphalt drowning out their shouts and laughter.

* * *

Michael was drunk as shit. It'd been a long time since he'd drank so much, since he'd been able to _afford_ to drink so much. But hell, things were different now. Now, he had fifteen thousand dollars cash—less the forty five or so he'd just spent on booze—stashed in the pocket of his jacket, and it was doing its best to burn a hole straight through the leather.

Kinda the same way that Trevor's hands were doing their best to burn a hole straight through the pockets of Michael's jeans.

It was a tight fit in the back of the Sabre, but that was the least of Michael's concerns. He had Trevor pinned underneath him, one thigh braced between Trevor's thighs and the other hugging the edge of the seat for leverage. Trevor's hands were tucked into Michael's back pockets, his fingers gripping into muscle through the fabric. He was guiding Michael's hips in slow, sporadic ruts, and Michael was doing his best to keep up.

His dick was pretty hard, tucked into the space where Trevor's thigh met his hip. Trevor's mouth was everywhere, a bit sloppy, but it felt good, his lips travelling from Michael's mouth, to his jaw, to his neck. Michael hadn't been with another guy since high school, but he didn't remember those drunken varsity guys being anywhere near as good as Trevor was in that moment. Trevor was all-consuming, claiming every part of Michael somehow, and Michael was going to let him take whatever he wanted.

Michael felt fucking fantastic. He and Trevor had pulled off their biggest job yet, and they'd done it so well that he was positive the scores were only going to get bigger and bigger from there on out. They had Lester in their corner, and the kid had a lot of good ideas. And they had enough capital to chill out for a minute, to just fuck around and do whatever they felt like doing. They were going to have to skip over to some other town within a couple of days, sure, but once they were out on the highway, the entire fucking world was theirs, as far as Michael was concerned. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that it's taken so long for this chapter to be posted! I don't have a real excuse, other than it's been an up-and-down couple of weeks and my focus hasn't been the best. I promise I'll be back on a weekly update schedule from here on out.
> 
> You might've noticed that I've upped the rating as of this chapter, due to some Mikey/T shenanigans *eyebrow waggle* Also, note there's pretty extensive talk of drinking and drug use here--I haven't added it to the work tags or anything though, as those won't really be recurring themes.
> 
> There's a companion piece to this chapter too, called The Stopover, which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1078175. It was originally a random standalone drabble I'd written for tumblr, but I felt like it suited the tone of this chapter, and decided to rework it a bit so that the two fit together. You don't need to have read one to understand the other, though.
> 
> I also wanted to say thanks for the kudos/comments/messages here (and on tumblr too) I've received--this fandom is amazing and I really appreciate you guys & your feedback! <333

**JANUARY 1988  
** _TREVOR_

Trevor exhaled deeply, watching the steam of his breath and the smoke from his cigarette combine and waft away, dissipating into the air in front of him. He barked a short cough, and this time his breath was carried away on a sudden wind.

Fuck, it was cold.

He ashed his cigarette, flexing his free fingers as he did, his knuckles chilled through and aching. The motel parking lot was covered in a fresh layer of crisp snow, sparkling off the hoods of the few cars parked there in the late afternoon sun. It’d almost be pretty, Trevor thought, if it weren't still the parking lot of a shitty motel outside some shitty town in shitty southern North Yankton. Summer still felt freshly behind him, even though it'd been snowing for months.

* * *

After the bank job, Trevor and Michael had moved on, driving on to some other town and leaving Lester behind. The kid was still an actual kid, too young to fly the coop for the exciting life of a nerd-criminal hybrid—at least for another couple of months, anyway. It’d been good though. Trevor and Michael both had enough cash in their pockets to fuck off in the meantime and do nothing. Their day to day wasn't exactly a job one needed breaks from, but being able to drive wherever and do whatever had been good all the same.

After the first couple of days, Trevor had been bracing himself for the moment when Michael would say that he was going to head off on his own, to do his own thing until they were due to pick up Lester. After all, without work, what was there to keep him around? It couldn't have been the company, Trevor figured—he was a shitty kind of friend to have at the best of times. Maybe it was the sex, he'd wondered, more than a few times. 'Cause it was pretty fucking good, even if neither of them ever really acknowledged that it was a thing. It was though. They’d get drunk, or high, or both, and stay up all night, pupils blown and dicks hard. Then they'd amble out of bed, always minutes before checkout, and drive all day to wherever they felt like. They didn't always stay in North Yankton, not like the bordering states were noticeably different. But it was a risk, driving boosted cars over state lines. It didn't fucking matter where they drove or where they ended up—they had cash to spend and time to spend it however they wanted.

They’d retraced their steps at the end of August, picking up Lester, the newly-minted adult, and then the real work began.

Lester had ideas—a lot of them. The poor pasty fuck had clearly done nothing all summer except dream up jobs in his basement and jerk off to weird shit. Who knew what did it for him—spy equipment, stock market indices, the latest designs in horn-rimmed glasses—whatever got the nerd's rocks off.

They went with something quick, to start. Trevor and Michael had burned through most of their cash over the summer, and needed a good pay check, and soon. But a dusty old antique store would’ve been the last place either of them would’ve thought to hit. Yeah, it’d probably be easy, they figured—knock out whichever geezer was propping up the counter and sweep the place—but easy shit never paid well.

“Not when you work with me,” Lester had said, snide and arrogant. Trevor had scoffed at that—he had no problem with cockiness; he thrived on it. But Lester was still too green to be making promises like that, especially when he didn’t take part in the execution. And if not for the bank job and all the cash they’d walked away with, Trevor might’ve told Lester to shove it all together.

Michael seemed pretty into the idea either way.  “I don’t know, Trev,” he’d said, “some of that shit can get pretty expensive... y'know, auctions and stuff.”

The job had gotten attention, though. Apparently the shop was a big deal in the world of musty old relics, inanimate and human both. A couple of news crews from around the state had descended on the town, and within a day a full itemised list of everything that had been taken was floating around local television channels and police scanners.

They didn’t have a choice but to move on and try to hawk the product somewhere else, and Trevor had been pissed. He and Michael, they’d learned to do things clean, with as little attention as possible—it was the only way they were going to start getting away with bigger scores. They’d gotten away without being ID’d, but how much would that matter, when they eventually tried to pawn one-of-a-kind Fabergé eggs and shit? ‘Certain unforeseeable variables,’ is what Lester had blamed it all on, and then he’d said something about high value scores requiring unique product and _blah blah blah_ —as far as Trevor was concerned, it was bullshit.

Of course, what wasn’t bullshit was the eight thousand dollars he’d been able to shove into his pocket when all was said and done.

They carried on through the fall, doing low profile jobs: hitting 24/7s, smuggling drugs, running pros. They started spending a little longer than usual in each place they hit, and Michael hated it, always wanting to hit bricks the second they cashed in. But how were they supposed to make any connections beyond the crippled boy genius if they never stuck around to meet the locals? Since Lakeview in the summer of ’85, Trevor and Michael had covered a lot of ground in North Yankton, and what kind of network did they have to show for it? Fucking Lester Crest—that was it. And fucking Lester Crest had a good point: sooner or later they were going to have to build up a crew of more than just Trevor and Michael, in order to step things up. They weren’t going to get to where they both wanted to be by keeping with the status quo.

Michael wanted to keep it small, between the three of them. He was one leery, untrusting fucker, considering the kind of career he’d chosen for himself. But he was loyal, and to Trevor, that was worth more than an extra two or three bodies on a job, no matter what. You couldn’t buy loyalty, not with cash, booze, or drugs. You had to earn that shit, forge it over flame like the blade of a knife. And he and Michael had done that a hundred times over by then, so when Michael wanted to keep it tight-knit, Trevor ceded.

Before he’d really realised it, they were smack in the middle of December. Lester had promised mommy and daddy dearest that he’d spend the holiday at home, so he’d set out a week or so before Christmas, and that suited Trevor just fine.

But then it came down to Michael. Over the summer, he and Trevor had rolled through Michael’s hometown, paid a visit to his mom. Apparently it had been a coincidence that they’d wound up in the place to begin with, according to Michael, but Trevor wasn’t an idiot; he knew better.  Mrs Townley had been the very picture of kindness and warmth, and Trevor had picked up on the way Michael softened from the moment she placed a delicate kiss on his cheek in the front door. Michael smiled a lot that night, and while Trevor appreciated it, he couldn’t stop the way his mind turned on him. Jealousy had crept into his thoughts like a wolf stalking its prey, hovering around the edges at first and then sinking its teeth in deep before the dinner plates had been cleared away. By the time he and Michael were walking back to their boosted hatchback, Trevor felt vile, tainted by melancholy and bitterness.

The day after Lester had left for his parents, Michael and Trevor were sitting in some shitty diner they’d found along the highway.

“Hey, T...?” Michael had started, poking the prongs of his fork into his scrambled eggs over and over.

Trevor slowly chewed through his mouthful of sausage and watched Michael fidget. The guy was usually pretty stoic and even-keeled; it was easy to tell when his brain was working overtime on something.

“Yeah, M.”

“I, uh...” Michael looked up from his well-perforated breakfast for a moment, catching Trevor’s eye. His pupils swelled, overtaking more of the grey-blue of his irises, and he quickly glanced out the window next to them. “I think I might head back to my mom’s, for Christmas...”

Trevor fucking hated it, but the first thing he felt was the sinking of his gut. It was like an elevator that had had its cables suddenly cut, crashing into the floor of his torso. He huffed, clearing his throat and immediately regretted the rueful noise, trying to cover it up with a sip of his lukewarm coffee.

“Sure.”

Michael looked back at Trevor out the corner of his eye, as if waiting for some sort of follow up. “You, uh... you wanna come? I mean, I know she’d be fine with that, and it’d just be me and her, y’know, we ain’t got any other fam—”

“Yeah,” Trevor barked. “I’m good.”

Michael nodded once, and then focused on his food again. He shovelled a piece of egg around, skirting it through a puddle of ketchup, but he didn’t eat it. “You’re sure?”

A coil of heat curled through Trevor’s chest. He tried to dampen it, swallowing hard, but it was too late—it’d taken root. “Fuck, I said I’m good, alright? You know I hate this bogus fucking holiday anyway. Ain’t nothin’ but a creation, fabricated by corporate America to serve as a sinkhole for the working class’ hard-earned money. Christmas don’t mean shit, not to me.”

It wasn’t a lie... not entirely. Christmas hadn’t meant shit to Trevor because his entire life, Christmas had been nothing _but_ shit. The only exceptions to the rule had been the last couple of years, when it’d been just him and Michael. It wasn’t like they celebrated it or anything, beyond a couple of bottles and lines bought for each other and shared between them. _‘Would be kinda fucked up, wouldn’t it,’_ Michael had said in ’85, _‘for a couple of guys like us to celebrate good will and kindness to your fellow man and shit, huh?’_

It was pretty simple, Trevor figured—he was a lot more familiar with ignoring the bullshit holiday than he was with enjoying it, so what the fuck difference would another year make?  

“Okay.” Michael sighed, and piled some eggs onto his fork again, finally putting them in his mouth. “If that’s what you want,” he added between chews.

Trevor had spent the next couple of weeks at the bottom of whatever bottles he could get his hands on. He’d lain in his motel room, drifting in and out of sleep for hours at a time, never entirely sure of what time or day it was. Christmas Day might’ve been the day he’d drank the full bottle of vodka, or it might’ve been the day he slept for eighteen hours—it didn’t fucking matter. As long as he had no memory of it, he’d figured, he was gonna be just fine.

By the middle of January, he’d met up with Michael and Lester, and they’d set out for their next score. It was going down in Clayton, a mid-sized city near the border with South Yankton. Lester had a tip on a jewellery store there that specialised entirely in precious metals—gold and silver, mostly.

Trevor had rolled his eyes, hard, when Lester had brought it up. “More small time shit, Lester? I mean, when are we really gonna step things up, here?”

“Small value targets individually, yes, but have either of you been following the price trajectories of gold and silver recently?” Lester had said, his voice exasperated. He’d watched as Michael and Trevor looked at each other and then shook their heads. “Of course not. The average gold price for 1987 was hovering around $485 per ounce; for 1986, it was $464; 1985, $452. The current price is unsustainable vis-à-vis the condition of the market, as indicated by several market insider reports, and so I feel fairly certain in saying that we’re near the end of an uptick. Another few months, and that price will be steadily declining—and if we strike now, well. I’m sure you two can piece that together yourselves, hmm?”

Fucking Lester Crest. One cocky son of a bitch, sure, but Trevor had to admire his knack for numbers. All of school had felt like bullshit to Trevor, but math had seemed especially pointless. Maybe, though, there was something to be said for it, if it turned your brain into something like Lester’s.

The job was going to take a lot of recon, determining the best timing and the best approach; the store had heavy security and was in the middle of Clayton’s business district. Michael thought it seemed too risky, but Trevor thought it sounded just right, like a real test of skill.

* * *

Trevor took one last drag on his cigarette, using it straight to the filter, and then tossed the butt on the ground, watching as it melted slowly down into the snow. He coughed again and spat, aiming for the crevice that his cigarette had descended into.

He turned and reached for the handle on the door to the room, hand hovering above the brass. It was as if his brain had checked out, leaving his mindless limbs to figure out what to do next with themselves. Michael was inside. A month ago the thought wouldn’t have given him any pause; it probably wouldn’t have even registered with significance. But there was something... Trevor couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t figure it out. Michael had been different, since after Christmas. Distant, almost, but not to the point where Trevor could look at it and say definitively that that was the cause of the change in the set of Michael’s shoulders, in the line of his jaw. Those weeks had been the longest they’d spent apart since they’d met. The thought had occurred to Trevor nearly every day, and he’d wondered nearly as often whether Michael had realised it too.

But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to care about that trivial, ineffectual bullshit. Where was it going to get him? Fucking nowhere useful, and that was the best case scenario.

Trevor finally dropped his hand on the door handle and moved inside. Lester had made a habit of insisting on his own room whenever they shacked up like this, and that suited Trevor just fine. Michael was lying on his bed, an arm propped behind his head. He was wearing just a pair of boxers.

Trevor kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall off his shoulders and down his arms into crescent-shaped pile on the floor behind him. It was quiet in the room; television off, no radio. It felt stuffy, smelling slightly of soap and damp wood; Michael must have just showered, Trevor figured.

There was another smell mingling in the air, one that Trevor recognised immediately. He glanced over at Michael just as he lifted his free hand to his mouth, pulling slowly at the joint gripped between his thumb and forefinger.

“Hey, Trev...” he said through clenched teeth and held breath. He exhaled deeply, slow curls of thick smoke spilling from his mouth.

Trevor didn’t say anything. Instead, he moved to the small table against the far wall, on the other side of Michael’s bed and reached into the nearly-empty case of Pisswassers there, fishing out the third-last bottle. He snapped off the lid against the corner of the table and took a long sip.

“You want some of this?”

Head still tilted back, Trevor looked at Michael down the line of his nose. Michael’s arm was lazily stretched out, the joint balanced between his first two fingers.

Smoke wasn’t Trevor’s favourite kind of high, not in the face of heavyweights like coke and crystal, but being high was better than being sober or drinking shitty beer. He nodded and swallowed, coming up beside Michael’s bed and taking the joint.

Trevor inhaled and held his breath as long as he could, relishing the dull burn in the centre of his chest.

Michael reached for the joint again, his eyes steady on Trevor as he exhaled. His stare was edged with something that Trevor couldn’t work out. He put the thought out of his head when the weed started settling in.

Michael took another drag and passed the joint to Trevor. “We’re supposed to meet Lester in an hour,” Trevor said, his lips moving around the tip of the joint before inhaling.

Michael nodded. “Yeah. Spot’s not far though, just down the road.” He took the joint from Trevor, but instead of taking another hit, he snuffed it out and balanced it in the ashtray on the bedside table. “Maybe we should, uh...” Michael paused, and Trevor noticed the slight tenting of his boxers. “Before this shit wears off.”

Trevor didn't want to think about it, about any of it. The weed had put his head into about as good a place as it going to get, and if he ignored the draft blowing in under the front door, he could almost trick himself into thinking it was the summer again.

Trevor began to undress as Michael lay on the bed, his hand moving to his half-hard dick and palming himself lazily over his boxers. Michael's eyes were closed, and finally, the tightness in his jaw seemed to give a little. Trevor moved to the end of the bed and kneeled on the mattress, setting back on his haunches and working himself. Michael's eyes opened as the bed creaked and he watched Trevor for a moment, his pupils wide, before he slid his boxers down and off.

Trevor took Michael from behind, one hand on his hip and the other braced on the mattress by his neck. Michael's chest was laid flush against the bed, his head pillowed on one arm. His other arm was under his stomach and between his legs. Trevor dug his fingernails into the skin under his hand as he felt himself teeter on the edge of outright dominance. This was the most feeling he'd mustered in months, as though everything inside him had been crudely cauterised in the interim. He was able to suddenly forget the strain he had sensed in Michael and it all felt easy again, natural and innate. The headiness of it spurred him on, taking him over, but he scrambled to keep control of himself—the sooner this was over, the sooner he was going to crash again, and he knew it was going to be a hard fall.

Michael moaned under Trevor and rocked back, driving Trevor deeper. Trevor answered with a grunt, his mind blanked by Michael's eagerness, and he let his rhythm get away from him. His hips moved sharp and erratic and he saw Michael's mouth go slack, his fingers gripping hard into the bed sheets. He came in the next minute with a low groan, and Trevor was close after him.

Trevor allowed himself a selfish moment of savouring the afterglow before he pulled away sharply and went to the bathroom, desperate for as much distance as he could manage in the small, square room.

* * *

"So," Michael said, "you boys ready for tomorrow?"

Trevor shrugged, running a fingertip through a bead of condensation on the side of his beer bottle. "Just like any other job, ain't it?"

"Christ, lighten up, Trev—this is a big fucking deal. We do this right tomorrow, we walk away with more money than we ever have before."

"Whatever," Trevor mumbled. He polished off the last of his beer and signalled for another, plus a shot of whiskey. He wanted to get gone tonight, as quickly and as thoroughly as possible.

"This is still pretty small-scale," Lester said. The kid had taken his glasses off, as if he intended to get real fucking wild—if not for the fact that he still hadn't managed to drink past the top of the label on his beer.

Trevor scoffed. "No shit."

"You got something in mind, Lest?"

Lester nodded slowly and looked around the bar. He leaned in close to Michael and Trevor. "Well, I've been doing all this extra research into gold lately, of course... and there's this bank out in Los Santos. Union Depository. And it's—"

"Way the fuck out in San Andreas?" Trevor barked. He reached for his whiskey and downed it.

"T's got a point, Lester. That's a fucking long way to travel for a score, man."

Lester's mouth turned down into a grimace and he reached for his glasses, putting them back on pointedly. "This isn't a just a _score_. This is _the_ score, the biggest job you could ever hope to pull in your inevitably-short careers."

Michael laughed and gave Lester a couple of hard claps on the shoulder. "Lest, baby, chill. What's the big deal here?"

"Well, if you'd let me finish..." Lester shrugged off Michael's hand and took a sip of his beer. "The Union Depository has one of the most significant concentrations of gold holdings in all of North America, and is, by all estimates, a piece of cake to breach compared to something like, say, Fort Knox."

Trevor rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. A piece of cake? Fuck off."

"Is the concept of relativity lost on you, Philips? It wouldn't be easy, just _easier_."

"Either way," Michael interjected. "It's all the way the fuck out on the west coast, and we're stuck here." Michael lifted his beer bottle to his mouth and then added, "Nice pipedream, though."

Lester sighed. "You both talk about stepping things up, about taking bigger scores. This is the big one. We aren't going to take it next year or something, _clearly_ —this is long term. Like a goal to work towards, if you will."

Michael shrugged, nodding. "I like the sound of that, 'the big one.' What do you think, T? Never hurts to have a ten year plan, huh?"

Trevor turned his head and looked at Michael, his eyebrow cocked. "Yeah, sure, if we even make it that long."

"You saying we won't? We're pretty fucking untouchable, I'd say."

Lester hummed and shook his head. "Don't say that. Bad luck."

Michael smiled and elbowed Lester. "Luck is what you make it, L. I'd say we're evidence of that, right?"

Trevor scoffed, pivoting in his stool to face Michael and Lester. He had to admit, the prospect was exciting—he and Michael and a crew, rolling into a bank like that, scrubbing it clean and getting away with it. But he was still sitting under the weight of his shitty mood from before and he couldn't shake it.

"If you're so sure about it, Townley, how about this: you ride that wave of luck of yours and in ten years time, those of us still standing all head out to that veneered shit-heap of a city together and take down _the big one_."

Michael's smile twisted into a smirk and he reached for his beer bottle, holding the tip out to Trevor. "Yeah, Trev—I'll toast to that."


	6. Chapter 6

**AUGUST 1988  
** _MICHAEL_

"Have I ever told you gentlemen how much I love tits?" Lester slammed his beer bottle on the table they were all seated around, his head falling forward as he let out a hiccup. "Because I really, really love tits!"

Brad laughed loudly and clapped Lester on the shoulder a few times. "Yeah, Lesty!" He reached for his own beer and held it over his head as if toasting the entire room. "Titties for everybody!"

Trevor groaned and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Would you shut the fuck up?"

"Lighten up, Trev! Look at all the prime ass around you right now! You ain't gonna score any of it like that!"

"Yeah, well, _maybe_..." Trevor paused and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He stared hard at Brad. " _Maybe_ I don't want any of this so-called prime ass, you moronic fuck."

Brad scoffed and shook his head. "Whatever, bro. More tail for the rest of us, right, boys?" He laughed again and stood up from the table, heading towards the bar at the back of the room.

Trevor grimaced and rubbed his palm over his face. "I fucking hate that turd," he said, turning to look at Michael.

Michael chuckled before taking a long sip of his beer. "Yeah, man. I know. I do too."

"Why do we gotta use him so much? I know pickings are slim in this part of this buttfuck state but there's gotta be better guys we can call up."

Michael shrugged. "We ain't got that many contacts."

Trevor scoffed. "Yeah, and whose fault is that, exactly..."

Michael rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat, turning away from Trevor slightly. "Alright, whatever."

Trevor had been lodged deep in a shitty mood for months, at least since the jewellery job they'd pulled in Clayton at the start of the year. The guy had always been an irritable, miserable bastard, but at least he'd been able to crack a joke or a smile in the midst of it. Lately, though, he was a real pain in the ass to be around, unless they were in the middle of a score.

Michael got it—hoofing it around the state from shithole to shithole had grown old pretty quick, not least because they were always a few weeks away from being broke. But they were having fun, calling the shots and living on their own terms—at least as far as Michael was concerned. Sure, they weren't being exactly fiscally responsible, but what was the point in doing the work they did if they didn't get to take full advantage of all the stuff it made available to them? Besides, what were guys like them going to do with a healthy savings account? They lived exclusively off fast food, cigarettes, booze, and drugs.

Michael looked back at Trevor. He was still leaning on the table by his elbows with his head bowed, rolling his half-empty beer bottle back and forth between his hands, and being a general fucking buzzkill. The strip club they were in was actually pretty decent—good crowd, good music, good talent. Trevor should've been having the time of his life, like Lester at the other end of the table. Lester had developed a pretty good tolerance for booze over the last year, at least insofar as his ability to keep it all in his gut; he still drank himself blind every chance he got. But he did keep shit entertaining.

Michael could feel himself being sucked into Trevor's spiral of gloom. He had to claw himself out, to find some sort of anchor in the land of the well-adjusted.

He drank the last of his beer and left the bottle on the table. "Gonna go do a few laps," he said, nudging Trevor's shoulder with his elbow before standing up. "Watch the kid," he added, nodding at Lester.

Michael walked away with Trevor's muttered "go fuck yourself" over his shoulder. He went to the bar and ordered another beer, narrowly avoiding Brad as he was trying to pick up one of the chicks tending bar, and then walked over to the far side of the catwalk, leaning forward on the rail.

There was a leggy blonde on stage, dressed up in some flowy blue thing trimmed with feathers. She was pretty, probably around Michael's age. All of the girls working that night were good, Michael thought, but he wasn't an overly picky kind of guy, either—not when it came to sex. He flashed a wide smile at the blonde and pulled a few bills from the breast pocket of his t-shirt, tossing them onto the stage. She noticed and reached for the bills as she writhed around, but ignored Michael entirely.

 _Well, fuck... fine, then_ , he thought, pushing away from the rail. He sighed and turned his attention back to the rest of the room, scanning his eyes over it. Trevor and Lester were still sitting at the table, Lester talking and gesturing wildly about something; Trevor was staring forward, his eyes focused on something in the middle distance. Brad was still at the bar, but he no longer had the bartender's attention. He was leaning on his side against the bartop, head bopping off-beat to the music, a blank smile on his face.

Michael rolled his eyes—what a real bunch of misfits he'd managed to surround himself with. He went back to looking around the room, and his eyes fell on one girl in particular. She was standing next to one of the booths a few feet away from the stage, one arm hooked on the top of the bench. There were a couple of guys in the booth, both messily drunk. Michael couldn't tell what they were saying, but if he had to guess, judging by the way they were talking over each other, it was bound to all be a bunch of nonsense.

The girl looked young—really young. Like, first week on the job young, maybe. And she was smoking hot, with her long brown hair and ample ass. He'd seen and been with his share of strippers and pros over the years, and this girl was easily one of the hottest he could think of. But there was something else about her, something that made it damn hard for Michael to look away. Maybe it was her stance, confident and aloof; maybe it was the way she looked entirely bored by the guys in the booth. Or maybe it was just the way her hair fell when she tossed it over her shoulder. Whatever it was, Michael was hooked.

It looked as though she was doing the rounds of the floor, moving table to table, so Michael decided the best plan of attack was to head back to the guys and wait for her to reach them.

Brad had returned to the table and was talking animatedly about something with Lester. Trevor had disappeared, though. As Michael sat down, he took a quick survey of the room to see where Trevor had gone, but there was no sign of him. Maybe he'd finally stowed the attitude and found a girl to occupy himself with.

"Yo, Mike!" Brad called when he noticed Michael had returned to the table. He reached forward to give Michael a high five.

Michael bit back a sneer and nodded at Brad, pointedly ignoring his outstretched hand. High fives... Brad was always trying to give fucking high fives. Meeting up, saying goodbye, after the punch line of one of his lame jokes, when the wind changed directions, whatever.

Brad seemed oblivious to Michael's snub as he pulled his hand back, making a seamless move for his beer. "Mmm," he mumbled, mouth full, and pointed across the room with the lip of his bottle."Check out that piece. She's been making eyes at me all fucking night, man, I swear. I'm gonna break her in two."

Michael looked where Brad was pointing and saw the girl from before, the hot brunette. He scoffed and shook his head as he turned back to the table. "Bullshit she has."

"Not bullshit. She wants a piece of the Bradinator, and I mean—" Brad paused to lean back in his chair, holding his hands out as if putting himself on display, "who can blame her?"

Lester cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, nearly poking himself in the eye as he tried to realign them. "Have either of you stopped to consider that maybe it's nothing more than a job requirement?"

"No way, Lesty. She wants it, and I'm gonna give it to her, real good."

Michael let it go—trying to argue with Brad was like trying to argue with a brick wall. He turned his attention to his beer, taking several deep pulls, and kept an eye on the girl, who was at the next table over.

She walked like a goddess, he thought, perched on her bright purple platform heels as she strutted towards their table.

"Hi, boys," she said as she drew up next to Lester. She snaked an arm around his shoulders, raking her long, pink nails over the fabric of his shirt. Lester froze, tensing up and gluing his eyes to one point on the grimy table. "Good night so far?"

Michael waited for her to look over at him, ready to flash her a smile, but she seemed fixated on Brad. Brad was wearing a shit-eating grin, way too pleased with himself, and Michael held back the urge to punch it off his face.

"Yeah, baby, but you could make it a lot better," Brad said. "How about you come around to this side of the table, got a seat for you right here..." He shifted back in his seat, spreading his thighs.

The girl arched an eyebrow at Brad and shifted in her stance next to Lester, pulling her arm back. Michael almost told Brad to fuck off right then, but he knew that if he let Brad have a little reign for a bit longer, he'd do all the work for him.

Michael leaned forward on table and tipped his chin at the girl."What's your name, princess?"

The girl looked at Michael with her big blue eyes, set off by a thick fan of dark lashes. His dick twitched the moment their eyes met. "Princess, actually."

"Fitting," Michael replied, giving her a half-smile.

"Every princess needs a prince, right, baby?" Brad interjected, also leaning forward, clearly trying to inch just a little past Michael.

The girl rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. "Not always..."

Michael smirked to himself and turned around in his chair, reaching for his wallet in his jacket where it hung on the back of his chair. He looked through it subtly, doing a quick count of the cash he had left. He knew he was down to his last thousand or so, but this girl was worth it, he could tell.

When Michael turned back to the table, Brad was still trying it with Princess. "C'mon, sugartits, I got a wad of cash and time to spend it—what more do you need?"

Princess' mouth fell open and she scoffed before starting to turn away from the table.

"Hey, you gross fuck!" Michael yelled at Brad, pointing a finger at him. "Show a little respect!" He snuck a quick look out the corner of his eye and was pleased to see that Princess was still within earshot.

"Chill out, Townley. You wanna get your dick wet so bad, be my guest..." Brad sank back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

Michael looked over his shoulder and saw Princess a few feet away, heading for the next table. He threw Brad a quick wink and then got up, bringing his jacket with him.

He approached Princess, coming up behind her and lightly touching her elbow. "Hey," he said, keeping his voice low. "Sorry, that guy's incapable of being anything but a huge prick."

Princess looked at Michael over her shoulder and he took the chance to smell her perfume. It was cloying and intense, sexy and feminine. His dick twitched again, growing more insistent.

"Please, I'm used to assholes like him. I can handle myself."

"I can see that."

She still didn't turn around to face him. "Have a good night," she said, drawing her arm away from his fingertips.

Michael reached for her arm again. He was past the point of worrying whether he came across desperate or whatever—if he ended up going home with nothing but a dying buzz and the assholes he'd walked in with for company, he'd never forgive himself.

"Hey," he said, coming around in front of her with a smile. "You seem like a really sweet girl, and there's just... I don't know, something about you. Is there somewhere we can go talk...?" 

* * *

Michael emerged from the VIP section of the club after an hour or so, blissed out and nearly broke. But fuck it was worth it... The thought of Amanda—he'd gotten Princess' real name out of her after the first dance—and the slip of paper with her number on it in his pocket were going to keep him satisfied for at least another day, until he could get back to the club to see her again.

He headed back to the table, and Trevor pounced on him the moment he got near, jumping out of his seat and grabbing Michael's shoulder.

"Mikey, hey! Where'd you get to, buddy?"

Michael tried to hold back the stupid smile he knew he was wearing but he couldn't help himself. "Oh, man, T. This girl... She was... Fuck me, she was perfect..."

Trevor's face fell into a slight frown. He was quiet for a moment, and Michael could see his jaw set into a firm line. "Well, it's about fuckin' time you pulled your dick out. We gotta go." He clapped Michael on the shoulder and turned back to the table, grabbing his jacket. "Gotta get on the road, get back to work."

Michael laughed, incredulous. "Yeah, okay."

Trevor looked up sharply at Michael, his brows furrowed together. "I'm fuckin' serious, man. We're getting lazy, complacent—we gotta keep moving, keep going, get on to the next job."

"Trevor, relax. What the fuck are we gonna do right now? We’re all pissed drunk," he paused to gesture at Lester, who was slumped over the table, barely holding his head up on his fist. "Lester can barely stand, and who knows where Brad is... probably balls deep in some chick in an alley."

Trevor growled, balling his hands into fists. He roughly kicked the chair he'd been sitting in towards the table and stormed towards the front door of the club.

Michael sighed, running his hand through his hair as he watched Trevor go. He looked down at Lester in time to see his eyes slip closed. "I'll be right back, buddy..." he muttered before heading after Trevor.

Outside, Trevor was pacing in the parking lot, a few feet away from the car they'd come in. He'd thrown his jacket onto the roof of the car, and he was completely stiff, hands still tightly fisted.

"T, c'mon..."

"No, Michael, you _c'mon_ ," Trevor barked, mocking Michael's tone. "We ain't done a job in like... three weeks. We've been here too long, we've gotta head."

The thought of leaving town now didn't appeal to Michael at all. As far as he was concerned, he'd finally found a reason to stick around in a place for longer than strictly necessary. "Fine, fine, but what difference does another couple days make?"

" _Days_ , Michael?! You've gotta be fucking kidding me!"

"What is your deal, exactly? You're the one who's always going on about sticking around and making connections."

Trevor scoffed, narrowing his eyes at Michael. "Yeah, connections—as in business connections. Not random pussy!"

Michael's blood boiled instantly, and he took a few quick steps towards Trevor. "Fuck you!" he shouted, sticking a finger in Trevor's face. "Stop being so damned selfish all the time!"

Trevor's eyes crossed a little as he looked down and focused on the tip of Michael's finger. His eyes were dark, burning, and Michael wondered just how badly Trevor was about to react. "Get your finger out of my face," he ground out.

Michael stared hard at Trevor. He grit his teeth, trying to temper his anger however he could. It wouldn't help any to blow up at Trevor, not when he was like this. He was unpredictable and impulsive—dealing with Trevor when he was this angry was like dealing with a cornered wild animal. After another long moment, Michael sighed and dropped his arm, taking a step away from Trevor.

Trevor stayed where he stood, but he leaned towards Michael, looking at him pointedly. "No distractions, Michael. That's it. We got work to do, alright? We gotta focus on _this_ ," he said, waving his hand back and forth between him and Michael.

Michael shook his head and waved the hand that held his jacket at Trevor before turning back towards the club. "Yeah, fine, whatever you say, Trevor. Just fucking go find Brad or something. Or don't. I don't care. I'm gonna go get Lester."


	7. Chapter 7

**JANUARY 1991**    
 _TREVOR_

Trevor let out a stifled yawn, and stretched his legs down the length of the bed. He needed new socks, he thought; his big toe was poking outside the worn woollen fabric. To his right, he heard Michael crush an empty beer can—the last one from the six-pack they'd bought.

The flattened aluminum hit Trevor's foot in the next moment, a few droplets of beer soaking through his sock.

"We should go out."

Trevor turned to look at Michael. "It's fuckin' gross outside."

Michael sighed. "It's always fuckin' gross outside." He had one arm pillowed behind his head while his other hand lay flat against his chest, his thumb tapping out some off-beat rhythm. "It's my last night of freedom, y'know. 

Trevor scoffed and faced forward again. Yeah, he knew—he fucking well knew. "Don't call it that."

Michael was quiet for a while before speaking again. "You really ain't got anything planned?"

"Why would I?" 

Michael sighed again, and Trevor heard the bed creaking as he stood up. "Whatever," Michael said, stumbling into the bathroom. Three beers weren't enough to do Michael in, Trevor knew that much, but they had gone through them pretty quick. 

Trevor listened as Michael pissed and stared hard at the ragged edge of his toenail peeking out from his sock. He knew exactly what Michael had meant—he wasn't stupid. But a bachelor party or whatever? A night celebrating the fact that the poor fuck had been ensnared into marrying a knocked-up child bride? No fuckin' way.

Michael emerged and stooped to pick up his jacket from where it sat in a heap on the floor. "C'mon, T. Nothing crazy. I just need more booze, okay?"

Trevor watched as Michael zipped up his jacket and then looked out the window to his left. Snow was coming down hard, in tiny little flakes that all blended together into just general whiteness. Michael had one boot on and was lacing up the other. Trevor was half-tempted to see whether Michael would head out without him, but the truth was, his head was too fucked up for him to be so sober.

The snow was biting, making icy little pinpricks against Trevor's skin as they walked. He fucking hated winter and snow, always being cold and wet. He glanced over at Michael beside him, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets and head bowed against the snow. Maybe now that his obligations had changed, Trevor thought, he'd finally bust out of shitty North Yankton.

"Still can't fucking believe it..." Michael said after a few minutes, his voice quiet.

Trevor didn't want to answer. He didn't want to talk or think about it, about any of it.

"It's the kid, mostly. Fuck, man... three months or something? That's really fucking soon."

Trevor shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. He balled his hands into tight fists against the cold, and against the hot pulse of something that flared in his chest.

"I mean, Amanda... she's golden, y'know? That's gonna be good, real good. I ain't worried about—"

"You should be," Trevor snapped. He wished that he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth on that curl of vapour, but the truth was, he didn't. Couldn't.

"C'mon, Trev—"

"No, you _c'mon_ , Townley. It's not too late, man. You ain't gotta do this shit tomorrow."

Michael barked out a sharp, short laugh, and it cut straight through Trevor's gut.

"You say the word, we cut and run. Tonight. We'll be halfway across this wasteland by morning."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious, Mikey. You think this is really gonna last? You're either being stupidly optimistic, or just fucking stupid. You barely know this chick, and she's already got you locked into a kid?"

"Barely know her? It's been like a year and a half or something."

"Yeah, and you can count the number of times you've seen her on less than two hands. And she was knocked up before you can even get too deep into the second! That's some fuckin' suspect behaviour, man. Probably poked holes in the dome for all you know. You ain't more than a cash advance on a five-year term to this chick."

Trevor was ready for it, for the famous Townley tirade. He'd faced the brunt of it before, and he knew exactly how to draw it out of Michael. That wasn't the point though—if Michael hadn't connected the dots already, then that was his problem. Everything Trevor had said was truth, and as Trevor well knew, the truth fucking hurts.

But the ire never came. No cursing, no incredulous or sarcastic shouting. Instead what Trevor got in response was a heavy sigh, a slumped set of shoulders, a mouth drawn into a grim line. Trevor had never seen Michael like this, dejected and sullen, and he didn't appreciate how efficiently it unnerved him.

They walked in silence for a while, and that felt thicker and more frigid than the snow on the side of the highway that they were trudging through. They reached the bar before long, and it was a neon-gilded oasis in the dark as they neared it.

Michael wrapped his hand around the brass door handle and paused, looking back at Trevor over his shoulder. "Let's just drink, okay? I don't wanna talk about this shit anymore."

* * *

"Mikey..."

Trevor wanted to sound firm, harsh, convincing—anything to mask the need he felt. But, Michael hummed anyway, and Trevor tried to ignore how hot it sounded.

It was familiar and foreign all at once. It'd been something like two months since they'd last messed around, but even so, Michael's fingers curled over Trevor's belt in the same way they had however many times before. His fingertips glanced over the skin of Trevor's lower belly, and he pulled Trevor towards him until the edge of the bed got in the way, and it was still the same kind of thing as it'd been, however many times before. 

But the circumstances were different now. This wasn't going to be just some drunken fuck to fill the time until morning. This was it. In the morning, they'd be getting up and putting on fucking suits and going to a church of all God damned places. The last time Trevor had set foot in a church had been back in Lakeview, helping himself to the poorly monitored collection plate during a dry spell of cargo jobs. Yeah, hanging out in a church: what a way to bookend his years of working with Michael Townley.

Because it'd all be over after this, wouldn't it? Sure, Michael might say that wasn't the case, that they'd keep running and pulling scores but Trevor knew the deal. By this time tomorrow, Michael would be kneeling between the legs of his new bride in their new trailer, their new kid caught somewhere in the middle. It was fucking creepy, as far as Trevor was concerned 

Michael was working the buckle of Trevor's belt until Trevor swatted his hands away sharply.

"What the fuck you think you're doing?"

Michael huffed. "Figured that'd be pretty obvious."

"Okay, how about this: _why_?"

Michael levelled his eyes at Trevor, and his mouth turned down into a firm line. "What's with the twenty questions?"

"Don't play stupid!" Trevor shuffled a step away from the bed and pushed on Michael's shoulder. "You know what I fuckin' mean."

"C'mon, T..." Michael sighed.

"You're fucking getting married tomorrow, you turd. This really how you wanna cap this off?"

"'This'? What the fuck does that even..." Michael let his voice trail off. "Whatever. So what if it is?"

Trevor shook his head, running a hand through his shaggy hair. "No. You don't mean it. You can't."

"I don't remember you having a problem with this last time, or the time before, or before that—"

"It's different now!" Trevor barked. "It just fucking is, okay."

"Okay..."

It sounded like a concession. Michael's eyes were glassy, his face relaxed, and it was done, Trevor figured. All of it. But still he didn't move away from where he stood in front of the bed. He stood with his feet planted between Michael's, facing Michael, seeing only Michael...

So when Michael took hold of Trevor's hips, Trevor didn't flinch. When Michael pulled him back towards the bed again, Trevor didn't resist. And when Michael leaned forward and mouthed his half-hard dick over his jeans, Trevor didn't pull away.

Michael's mouth was damp and warm through the fabric, his tongue pressing down on the seam of the fly, his lips outlining Trevor's shaft.

They were both so blasted. It'd be selfish to let Michael keep going, Trevor thought, but the heady fog in his brain obscured everything. He didn't care. So what if the wedding was tomorrow? The last time they'd fucked, the only thing that was different was that the wedding had been further away; it'd been lurking on the horizon all the same. 

And Trevor only had to answer to himself. He wasn't beholden to anybody, Amanda least of all. Whatever Michael told or hid from her was his deal, not Trevor's. And if Michael wanted to make his peace with all this shit by letting Trevor fuck him, then fine. Trevor would be okay—it'd be done, dusted, and forgotten before he'd managed to tie his tie the next morning 

Michael began tugging Trevor's jeans down over his hips, and Trevor didn't stop him. Michael wrapped a hand around the base of Trevor's cock and gave it a slight squeeze, and Trevor's breath hitched as Michael drew his fist up to just below the head. Trevor watched Michael lean forward, watched Michael's tongue dart out and swipe lazily across the tip of his prick, watched his shaft delve beyond Michael's lips.

Trevor felt one of Michael's hands wrap around the back of his leg, fingertips digging into the thin skin on the inside of his thigh. Typical Townley—compulsive need to be in charge, to call the shots, all the way down to where exactly someone stood while he sucked them off. But Trevor didn't care, and the tip of his cock connected with the soft wall at the back of Michael's throat, with a groan from Trevor and a quiet hum from Michael.

Trevor brought a hand up, fingers carding through Michael's short hair and sliding from his temple to the back of his head. He turned his fingers inwards, gripping into Michael's hair, and followed the motions of his head, slowing rocking his hips forward to match rhythm. Trevor felt Michael swallow, the head of his dick wrapped in the rippling contractions of muscle and he groaned, low and loud. Fuck if Michael didn't know exactly what he was doing.

And just as Trevor was beginning to wonder if Michael was going to let him finish in his throat, Michael brought a forearm up to rest across Trevor's lower belly and pushed him back half a step. He flicked the edge of a finger at the corner of his mouth, and Trevor figured that was it, like some switch had been flipped, and Michael was going to go back to refusing to acknowledge anything, any of this, as if he hadn't been just about to take Trevor's load.

"Fucking..." Trevor sighed, rueful of the cool air against his heated, slicked cock. "This was your fucking idea from the start, Townley."

When Trevor looked down at Michael, he was smirking, all smug and shitty, and his hands were cupped between his thighs. He lazily palmed himself as Trevor stood there gawking, as if it was the first time he'd seen Michael rub at himself. Michael leaned back, bracing himself with one hand on the bed and undoing his jeans with the other.

Trevor scoffed. "What is this, some 'old time's sake' bullshit?"

Michael shrugged and lifted his hips, tugging off his jeans. "Can call it that if you want."

"Uh-uh, I ain't gonna be the one needing to reminisce about old times in a couple months, alright? You're gonna be up all night with a fucking baby and I'll be up all night just fucking."

"Probably true."

"Or is this some sort of spank bank material? Rubbing a quick one out while Mandy's off feeding the spawn?"

Michael grimaced and his hand stilled on his exposed prick. "Don't... don't mention her."

Trevor shook his head and his eyes fell on Michael's erect cock, flushed and leaking. "This is fucking weird, man. You're fucking weird..."

Michael shifted and pulled himself further back on the mattress, thick thighs spreading wide. "Oughta be right up your alley then, huh."

Trevor sighed, watching as Michael pulled his shirt over his head. He hadn't been kidding—this was weird as shit—but Michael also hadn't been wrong. Ain't nothing wrong with weird, Trevor thought, as he watched Michael roll over on his stomach.

* * *

Trevor was nursing his third tumbler of whiskey for the night, elbows balanced on his knees and his back to the wall. He was in a good spot, all things considered—less than twenty feet from the bar, and at least twice as many from the dance floor. The whiskey was barely taking the edge off, though. It was poor planning on his part; he should've stuffed a handful of the pills from his stash at the motel in his pockets. But at least the drinks were free.

He was fucking uncomfortable, though. His suit felt like it was fixing to smother him, with his shirt collar and tie ready to finish the job. Amanda had better be grateful he managed to make it through the ceremony, Trevor mused, as he tugged downwards on the knot of his tie. Not that he'd have pulled shit—he loved Mikey too much for that, and he wasn't some tactless hick, either. Didn't mean he hadn't wanted to, though.

Trevor looked up and scanned the crowd as he leaned back to empty his tumbler. Michael was across the room, standing next to his blushing bride, and he was staring Trevor down. Michael had had one eye on Trevor all day, but Trevor knew it wasn't a leftover or something from the night before; it was a precaution, as if Trevor was balancing on the edge of the handle and threatening to take a flying leap. And it was bullshit, as far as Trevor was concerned.

Trevor rolled his eyes pointedly and looked away, crossing his arms. And then he noticed a swath of mustard yellow, clumsily wrapped around some dumpy package, and Trevor realised he'd been seeing the same sight out the corner of his eye since at least his first drink. 

Fucking Lester—for a guy who probably beat off to ninja movies every night, the guy had about the same amount if subtlety as a bull moose. Michael had probably told Lester to plant and keep an eye on him, Trevor figured.

"Hey!" Trevor called to Lester, snapping his fingers when he pretended not to hear. "Yeah, you—fuck off, poindexter. Go find some other poor fuck to ogle with your creepy, buggy little eyes, alright?"

Trevor didn't bother to listen to Lester's inevitably-lame retort, and instead turned back towards the bar. He was about to go re-up on his whiskey when Michael drew up next to him.

"Hey, T..." Michael's voice was almost tentative. "How's it going over here?"

Trevor shrugged and waved his empty tumbler at Michael. "'M dry, but other than that, everything's just _peachy_."

Michael nodded, and Trevor hoisted himself out of his chair. He wasn't drunk—or at least, not drunk enough—but his feet faltered all the same when he tried to step away.

Michael reached out and wrapped a hand around Trevor's bicep, holding him in place. "Hey..."

"What?"

"Just... chill, okay? You're getting a little intense over here."

Trevor scoffed and wrested his arm away from Michael's grip. "'Come the fuck on. I'm just sitting here, Michael."

Michael let Trevor's arm go, but he moved to position his body in front of Trevor's. "Yeah, okay. But I can see... I can see that switch's been flipped in you, buddy."

"What the fuck are you even talk—"

"You're sitting here knocking back booze, brooding and getting all melancholy, getting way too deep into your own head."

Trevor laughed, his tone sardonic. "How 'bout you stop worrying so much about me and my fuckin' head?"

"C'mon, T, just be easy."

"' _Be easy_.' Can you just stop acting like you're living in the middle of some big budget Vinewood production for once, man?"

Trevor pushed past Michael and got three steps closer towards the bar before Michael spoke up.

"Where are you going? You're not leaving, are you?"

Trevor scoffed and turned back to Michael, and wished immediately that he hadn't. Michael's face was nothing but stress and tired eyes—like the vigour had been sapped out of him. And yeah, Trevor could figure it might've had something to do with all the wedding bullshit, but he knew it wasn't that. It was _him_.

"No, I ain't fuckin' leaving. I can't be smoked out so easily."

Michael sighed and took a step to the side, in the direction of the rest of the party. "Why don't you come sit with Mandy and I? Brad's around over there too, somewhere. Or, hey, my mom's been asking after you, wants to know how you're doing and everything."

Trevor waved Michael off, gesturing towards the dance floor with his empty tumbler. "Nah, Mikey. I'm good here. Almost can't hear that atrocious DJ from that chair, and of course, straight shot to the bar." Trevor swung his arm around, in front of Michael, towards the bar. "Free booze too—gotta say, that's pretty big of ya, Townley. What, you use the cash from that last job to bankroll that?" Trevor paused, giving Michael a chance to answer, one he knew he wouldn't take. "Guess it all comes full circle, huh? Money getting spent on drink and parties either way—already got a couple of strippers, right? All that's missing is some blow, but I bet we could arrange that."

Michael had already started back towards the crowd by the time Trevor had shut his mouth. Trevor turned towards the bar, signalling to the bartender as he listened to the soft click of Michael's dress shoes over the worn parquet flooring. Michael seeing red and getting in his face would've been easier for Trevor to process. It was a deafening sound and, Trevor knew, the last he'd probably hear of Michael for a while.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely and talented wachtelspinat drew a scene from this chapter and it's really perfect, you can see it [here](http://wachtelspinat.tumblr.com/post/73994044918/you-want-to-hold-her-rites-of-passage-updated) ^.^

**JUNE 1991  
** _MICHAEL_

Before the wedding, Michael had run Trevor and the crew a little thin, picking up as many jobs as they could manage as he tried to make up for all the cash he'd blown before, when his only responsibilities had been to himself. They'd done well enough that Michael could afford to take a few months off to spend with Amanda during the end of the pregnancy, and he was pretty sure none of the guys would be complaining about the extra cash either.

Michael didn't like being unprepared. If he was going to do something, he was going to plan it out and do it right. And he wasn't going to treat having a baby any differently. He'd gone out and bought a couple pregnancy books, read them cover to cover, and by the time Tracey was born, he'd been sure the whole thing was going to be a cakewalk. He knew she wasn't going to be fully cooked by the time she popped out and he knew to hold up the back of her pointy little head. He knew how to swaddle her and how to change a diaper, and he knew different cries meant different things.

What he hadn't been prepared for, though, was Tracey having different ideas about the specifics.

She squirmed and writhed so hard that Michael had nearly dropped her, more than once. She flailed when he tried to wrap her up and she kicked when he tried to change her. And the cries—yeah there were different ones, but none of the books ever said that they'd all be so damn identical. Amanda seemed to have it figured out after the first couple days, but for Michael it was still trial and error even after two months.

Like now. Tracey had started wailing and Amanda had shoved Michael out of bed. He'd been a little disoriented, but his first guess had been the diaper. Wrong—bone dry. Second guess had been gas, but after pacing around the room for a few minutes, patting and stroking her back, she was still screaming. His third guess had already been that she was hungry, but the glare Amanda shot him prompted him to move a little quicker out towards the kitchen all the same.

He held Tracey in the crook of his arm as he watched the bottle turning in the microwave, trying to distract her with one of his fingers. She grabbed onto it, but it didn't do anything to quiet her; instead she just lay there, holding onto Michael's finger and wailed.

"Shh, baby girl..." Michael whispered, twisting at the waist to sway Tracey side to side. "We'll have that midnight snack ready in a hot minute."

When the bottle was warmed through, he carried Tracey to the couch at the opposite end of the trailer. He perched on the edge of the cushion and held Tracey out along the length of his forearm, cradling the back of her head in his hand, and fed her the bottle. She latched on eagerly, letting out small snuffly breaths through her nose as she drank.

"Yeah, third time's the charm, huh?" Michael said with a sigh. He dabbed away the last few tears from Tracey's flushed round cheeks, watching as she blinked her big blue eyes, still a little glassy from crying.

As he sat, watching Tracey drink, he started thinking about Trevor. That'd been happening a lot lately, when things were quiet and he had time to sit. Their last job had been a while ago, about a month before Tracey was born, and they'd only spoken over the phone a couple times since. Things had been strained since the wedding—and not without good reason, as far as Michael was concerned.

Fuck, he'd been so pissed at Trevor that night; it'd taken all of his willpower to keep a check on his temper, to not lash out and lay into him on the spot. But he wasn't going to let everything be ruined for Mandy. She'd looked so pretty, so radiant, with her easy smile and pregnant belly.

The recollection that the last person he'd fucked before the wedding had been Trevor, and not her, rose up in his throat like bile, as it always did. He'd woken up the next morning with that familiar sense of regret, burrowed deep into his chest, and it burned hot and bitter for days afterwards. It still flared up in him even now, five months later. And the fact that Trevor hadn't been wrong—about it being for 'old time's sake,' about it being 'spank bank material,' about everything—only made it sting all the more.

It was a warped situation with no easy answer, and so Michael buried it underneath everything else had going on in his life and did his best to ignore it.

But he still missed it—being on the road and planning jobs, running with Trevor and Lester. Spending each day with Amanda and Tracey was pretty great, but... It was like Michael's life was some fucked up Venn diagram, where neither half overlapped.

He glanced at the time glowing orange on the VCR in front of him; it was a few minutes past two thirty. Odds were about fifty-fifty that Trevor would either still be awake now, or just waking up after sleeping through the day. It'd been nearly three weeks since they'd last talked, and Trevor had probably wandered to the other side of the state by now, but maybe...

Michael shifted his left arm, balancing Tracey's head on his wrist and holding onto the bottle, and then he carefully leaned over and reached his right arm across his body for the cordless phone on the end table next to him. He dialled the number of the last motel Trevor'd been staying at from memory and listened to dial tone after dial tone.

"Ahhh, what?"

Michael chuckled at the tone of Trevor's voice, starting out as a growl and petering out into a weak rasp. "Hey, T."

The line was quiet for a few moments, and Michael could picture Trevor lying there, probably spread eagle on his stomach, face smushed into his pillow. "Townley... that you?"

"Yeah. You up?"

Trevor scoffed. "No, 'm fuckin' talking to you in my sleep. What time is it?"

"Two thirty, something like that." Michael paused, listening to Trevor breathing through the phone. "Hey, if you were asleep, I'll—"

"Nah, 'm good." Trevor yawned, lacing a groan through it like he always did, and then he coughed. "I'm good. What you buggin' me for?"

"Just... saying hi I guess." Michael winced; that was lame." Checking in. Been a while."

Trevor grunted. "Yeah, what—couple weeks I guess?"

"Yeah." Tracey squirmed a little, and Michael leaned back, carefully transferring her body to the dip between his closed legs, freeing up his left arm.

"What do you want, M?" Trevor said, overenunciating each word.

"Oh, sorry—got Tracey here, just getting her settled."

"Ahh, right. The kid."

"Yeah."

"She, uh... she all good?"

Michael looked down at Tracey, who was staring back at him, and he smiled a little. "Yeah, she's good. You should come see her, y'know."

Trevor let out a long sigh, and Michael could hear him moving around.

"You're still close," Michael added when Trevor didn't answer. "That spot's only a couple miles away, right?"

Michael heard the sound of water rushing out of a faucet, followed by another cough. "Yeah," Trevor finally said.

"Come by. Today, if you can. Have dinner or something."

Trevor scoffed. " _Dinner_. You really are a suburban fuck now, ain't ya."

"Or don't—you can take off after an hour if you feel like it."

"I got shit to do."

Michael sighed, exasperated. "Yeah, I'm sure you do."

They'd had this conversation before, nearly every time they spoke. Trevor'd been against the idea of Michael having a kid from the moment he'd heard that Amanda was pregnant—and he'd made no secret of it. _'Throwing your life away, that's what you're doing,'_  had been his refrain. Marrying Amanda had been a tough enough pill to swallow, but Tracey... she'd been the final nail in the coffin, as Trevor saw it. Michael knew it was on him to convince him that wasn't the case, but how the fuck was he supposed to do that if he couldn't even get the guy to show his face?

"Look, would you just come by? I got a few ideas I wanna bounce off you too." That was a lie, but Michael knew it'd get Trevor at least as close as the front door. He'd figure something out between now and then.

"Yeah?" The lift in Trevor's tone was obvious. "Like work stuff?"

"Yeah, like work stuff."

"Alright, buddy. Gimme an hour or so, I gotta run something across town first but it'll put me pretty close to your—"

"T."

"Yeah, Mikey?"

"Still not even three in the morning. Aim for the afternoon sometime, okay?"

Trevor cleared his throat. "Oh. Yeah, right. Okay."

Normally Trevor would've probably tried to play that off somehow, like it'd been intentional or a joke or whatever. But he didn't, and that told Michael everything.

"See you in a bit?"

"Yeah."

The line disconnected then. Michael ended the call and tossed the handset onto the couch next to him. He was going to have to come up with something good, but he'd been out of the loop long enough that he didn't have much of a grasp on the scene; maybe Lester had something up his sleeve...

Tracey cooed and kicked, her foot connecting with Michael's stomach. He laughed and looked down at her, grabbing hold of her feet. "Alright, baby girl." He lifted her up and held her against his chest, her chin on his shoulder, and patted her on the back as he headed back to the bedroom. "Gonna have a visitor later today, so you better get a good sleep, now."

* * *

It was a little past three by the time Trevor showed up. He looked old, like he'd aged ten years over the weeks since they'd last seen each other. It was something in his face, in how it looked more gaunt, more sallow. Drugs, if Michael had to guess, and probably a lot. Trevor'd always been up for doing whatever he could get his hands on, for as long as Michael'd known him, but left to his own devices, Michael knew he relied on cheap highs. It reminded him of when they'd met up again after that first Christmas apart, however many years ago.

Michael led Trevor through the trailer into the living room, and muted the football game on the TV. Tracey was in her carrier on the couch, and Trevor was watching her carefully. Leery, almost, like an animal watching another animal slowly encroach on its territory.

Michael was amused, more than anything. He glanced down and noticed a clutch of bright pink fluff peeking out from the other side of Trevor's body, and he leaned back, craning his neck to see what it was.

Trevor was holding a bear at his side, clutched tightly in his hand. It was big, nearly twice as big as Tracey, with a pot belly and a big stitched-on smile. He caught Michael looking at it and fidgeted, faking a cough and shifting in place.

"For the kid," Trevor said gruffly, holding out the bear to Michael.

Michael took the bear. It was warm and a bit damp with sweat around its middle from where Trevor had been holding it, and Michael smiled to himself at the thought of Trevor trying to navigate a toy store.

"Thanks, T," Michael said, setting the bear next to Tracey's carrier. "She'll love it."

Trevor nodded, scratching at the back of his head.

Tracey gurgled and Michael reached for her. He turned back to Trevor with Tracey in the crook of his arm, and walked her over to him.

Trevor continued to stare at Tracey, and she was putting on a pretty good show—cooing and blinking at him, as if batting her eyelashes. He cleared his throat and waved at her awkwardly. "Hey, kid..."

"You want to hold her?"

Trevor balked, eyes darting from Tracey to Michael, and shook his head.

"C'mon, you'll be fine. It's pretty nice, actually."

Before Trevor could protest again, Michael lifted Tracey and handed her to him. Trevor stood frozen and rigid as Michael positioned Tracey in his hold.

"Just keep her neck supported, there you go..."

Michael took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest, partly to watch Trevor and partly so he couldn't just thrust Tracey back. Trevor stood perfectly still, eyes transfixed on Tracey. He was handling her like she was made of glass or something—Michael had never seen Trevor treat anything so gingerly, not even damned C4s.

They stood that way for a while, and Trevor eventually eased, letting his shoulders finally relax.

"So, work," Trevor said, looking up from Tracey for the first time. "You better have a job ready to go."

"Pretty good one too. Lester's got an in at some armoured car operation."

"Nice. What're you thinking, blitz play?"

"Yeah. Should be pretty straightforward."

Trevor smiled, wide and toothy. "Fuckin' perfect. But no Brad, okay? Just you and me on the ground. Been working with that mouth-breathing fuck and some of his knuckle-dragging buddies almost exclusively lately, and if I have to put up with him anymore, he's gonna end up dead."

Michael laughed, shaking his head. "Why didn't you call Lester or something? He's got a shit ton of ideas he's been stockpiling."

Trevor shook his head wildly, his hair swishing from side to side. "Nuh-uh. Won't deal with that kid directly, he ain't right."

"Yeah, right..."

Amanda came into the living room then, and her timing was so good that Michael had to figure she'd been hanging around the corner in the bedroom or something the whole time. She stopped a few feet away from him and Trevor, eyes glued on Tracey in Trevor's arms.

"Trevor," she said curtly, more a statement than a greeting.

Trevor answered with a sneer, and Amanda closed the distance between them, reaching for Tracey. She took her from Trevor without ceremony and held her close to her chest, taking a few steps away.

"So you're going back to work now?" Amanda said, looking pointedly at Michael.

She was rigid, jaw firm and shoulders set. Michael knew this conversation was going to come sooner or later, but he didn't want to have it in front of Trevor. Talking about this kind of shit around him would be like waving a lit match around a Molotov cocktail.

"Yeah, in a week or so I guess."

Amanda moved to the kitchen and set about warming up a bottle for Tracey. "Leaving me with your two month old daughter? It's way too soon, Michael."

Michael pivoted away from Trevor to face Amanda. "It'll be fine, Mandy—we'll talk about it later, okay? We don't even have the specifics worked out yet."

Amanda scoffed. She slammed the door of the microwave shut and pressed on the keypad so hard that Michael could hear it over the beeps the buttons made as they were hit. "I thought things were going to be different now, that's all. I mean, it's not like a baby changes things, right?"

Michael sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to think of a way to defuse this as efficiently as possible. But before he could come up with something, Trevor took matters into his own hands.

"Oh yeah," he said, his tone sharp and sardonic. "Like you were gonna be able to keep living the life you do with Michael sticking around the house? It's a matter of means versus lifestyle, Amanda, and—"

"Trevor," Amanda snapped, whirling away from the microwave to face him. "Keep out of it."

"Newsflash, baby: your post-pregnancy stripper career sure ain't gonna pay for all the diapers your baby's gonna shit her way through, let alone the mortgage Mikey had to take out on this joint."

Anger flashed across Amanda's face, her lips drawing into a frown and her eyes burning at Trevor. She started to move towards Michael and Trevor, and Michael intervened.

"Hey," he barked at Trevor, putting a hand in the centre of his chest and pushing him back a step. "Drop it, T."

"Just calling it like I see it, man."

Michael levelled his eyes at Trevor and grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around. He pushed Trevor towards the door, digging his fingers into the tight muscle under his hand to convey how much he wasn't joking around.

"I said, drop it." He reached around Trevor and opened the front door. He knew Trevor had a point, buried somewhere in his vitriol, and he didn't want to completely railroad him, so he loosed his grip and patted Trevor on the shoulder. "Thanks for coming around, okay?"

Trevor scoffed, shrugging Michael's hand away.

"I mean it, T. It was good to see you. Just stay put; I'll get some more details and call you in a couple days."

Trevor jumped off the stoop under the front door and turned around, pointing a finger at Michael. "You'd better, _M_ , or else I'll pop by again."

Michael waved Trevor off and closed the door behind him, steeling himself for the earful he knew he was about to get from Amanda. _Better get the fuck used to it, Townley,_ he told himself, turning around and leaning his back against the door.


	9. Chapter 9

**OCTOBER 2004**    
 _TREVOR_

 "Bullshit."

"Not bullshit. The guy's a complete chump."

"A hundred and fifty percent mark up, though, Trevor? What asshole looking to buy a duffel full of pills doesn't know the street price?"

"Exactly the kinda asshole I wanna be doing business with!" Trevor looked at Michael in the passenger seat next to him. "It's North Yankton, man—not South LS or some shit. The trailer folk get desperate around here."

Michael sighed and shook his head. "Did you run it by Lester at least?"

Trevor growled and sped around the next corner. Michael and Lester, what a fucking pain. "Fuck Lester, Michael. I ain't giving that guy fifteen percent just to make sure the guy's trailer is where he says it is! This ain't Lester's turf, alright? This is _my_ turf."

"Jesus Christ, Trevor. Everything goes through Lester, that's the way we've always played it."

"No, Mikey, that's the way you've always played it. I've just been along for the ride. Me and Bradley back there, we've done plenty of work without that lump's help. Ain't that right, B?" Trevor shifted and glanced at Brad in the back of the van. He was picking at some shit under his nails, but he nodded all the same.

"Yeah, T—fuck Lester."

Trevor nodded at Brad then looked pointedly at Michael. He was shaking his head, staring out the window at his right, clenching and unclenching a fist. Classic Townley, simmering in his own anger, never letting it all out. Trevor could egg him on, could coax it out of him until he exploded, but that wouldn't do right now. This was going to be a cakewalk job—just a swap, a simple exchange of goods for money—but still, Trevor didn't need a fuming Michael at his back. Who knew how some dumbfuck pill jockey would react to the patented Townley death glare?

"Look, M. It'll be fine, okay? We stroll up, drop the stuff, and walk off with our stacks. Straightforward."

Michael sighed and rapped his knuckles against the side of the van door a few times. "Fine," he said eventually. "But this had better be legit, T. I already got enough of an earful from Mandy for this, don't feel like losing my balls over it too."

Trevor scoffed, shaking his head. "Trust me, man—your balls have been in Amanda's vice grip since you stuck little Tracey in her. If she ain't flicked her wrist and torn 'em off by now..."

The buyer's trailer park looked like every other trailer park Trevor had ever seen, and as they walked towards the guy's place, Trevor nearly made a joke to Michael about him feeling right at home, especially when he saw a couple kids running around, but stopped himself. Michael's jaw was still clenched firm, and Trevor didn't need him tipping over the edge, not just yet. It was a sure fucking bet that something else would take care of that sooner or later, anyway.

Trevor took point at the guy's door, with Michael on his right and Brad on his left. Trevor knocked as he'd told the guy he would—two quick raps and a third half a beat after—and the door opened a few moments later.

If there were ever a guy who looked like he needed to get high, it was this sad fuck. Over the hill, underweight, sallow and leathery skin, scraggly hair, and a shirt that probably hadn't been washed in months. Trevor nearly felt bad, gouging him as he was, but a fool and his money, right? Soon—and deservedly—parted.

The guy swept his eyes over Trevor, Michael, and Brad, then let his gaze fall hard on the duffel in Brad's hand. "Hey," he croaked, and he was practically salivating, Trevor was sure.

Trevor threw his hand back at Brad, smacking his arm and wriggling his fingers. Brad handed the duffel to him, and Trevor brought it in front of himself, watching the guy's eyes follow it the entire time. Trevor huffed, nearly disgusted with how obvious he was being.

Trevor took hold of the zipper of the duffel but paused before pulling it back. "You got the paper?" The guy swallowed and nodded quickly, shifting his weight in the doorway of the trailer. "Alright, then—little looky-loo..." Trevor opened the bag and turned it towards the guy.

"Ten bags, right?" The guy said, his voice anxious. "Uh... two hundred per?"

"Yeah, yeah, like I said, right? Two Gs, all stamped and legit."

The guy fidgeted again, running a hand over his face. "C-can I get a look? Like up close, y'know, or—"

Trevor scoffed and pulled the duffel back. "Does this look like my first deal to you, asshole? You get up close and personal with the goods when I get the dough."

"Fine, fine, okay, shit..." The guy took a quick step back and leant behind the open door, completely hidden from view.

Trevor felt Michael shift behind him, followed by a sharp poke at his lower back.

"Trevor..." Michael whispered in Trevor's ear, voice low.

Trevor nodded, zipping up the duffel again. This wasn't right, Trevor agreed—there was something weird about this guy, first purchase or no. He reached back and pushed Brad away, then jerked his head after him, signalling Michael to follow, but before Michael could move, the guy came out from behind the door, pistol drawn in one hand and a police badge in the other.

"Fucking cops!" Trevor shouted as he jumped back off the trailer's front stoop.

"AFT! Drop the fucking bag, Philips!" The cop pulled back the safety, and three others came running out from around a corner into the front room of the trailer, each fully tooled up.

Trevor cursed and took off towards the van, clutching the duffel. Brad was already a few lengths ahead, and Michael was a few steps behind, except—

Trevor didn't hear any footsteps.

He whipped around and saw Michael trying to get away from the first cop, who had him by the arm.

Trevor ran back towards the trailer and grabbed Michael's free arm, yanking him back hard. Michael stumbled but he managed to pull away from the cop, and then they ran like hell for the van. Brad had already opened the doors, and Trevor got into the driver seat as Michael leapt into the back.

Michael slammed the side door shut as Trevor peeled away. "What the fuck, Trevor!"

Trevor let out a hoarse shout, slamming his hands on the steering wheel as the van careened over the gravel road leading out of the trailer park. He couldn't form words, his mind nothing but deep anger and rage, so he shouted again.

"That was so fucking rookie, I don't—"

"Fuck off, Townley. How was I supposed to know it was gonna be AFT?"

Michael scoffed and kicked the side of the van. "Don't even try it, Trevor. If you'd just gone to Lester, we wouldn't have walked right into that clusterfuck."

"Oh yeah, I'm sure your precious Lester Crest has a list of all known undercover narcs in the state, right?"

"Not the point! We can't afford to be stupid, to cut corners. And I can't be almost getting arrested, alright? I've got a fucking wife and two fucking kids, Trevor, and—"

"I know, Michael! Fuck, do I know! You remind me of your fucking familial obligations every chance you get, as if I don't consider them family too. You ain't telling me nothing I don't already know, you asshole. And frankly, I'm fucking _aggrieved_ you'd even think I'd have walked us into bullshit like that if I'd had any idea it was a setup."

"Trevor!" Michael shouted and then he paused, letting out a deep breath. Trevor glanced back at Michael, and he was hunched forward, head cradled in his hands, elbows perched on his knees. "I'm..." Michael continued quietly. "I'm just so..."

Trevor knew what he was going to say, what word was hanging just off the tip of his tongue. And he willed Michael, he willed him so fucking hard, to not keep talking, to not say what he was going to say.

He didn't.

* * *

The tension was still stifling back at the safehouse. Michael was pacing the length of it, from the dingy windows at one end to the front door and back again. He was processing things, fuming, letting it all stew, Trevor knew. He'd seen Michael trying to decompress enough times over the last nineteen years to recognise it.

And so Trevor kept out of his way, pulling a beer out of the fridge and cracking it open on the countertop. Brad was flopped on the couch along the far wall, huffing deeply from the bong that seemed to follow him around the place. The soft gurgling of the stale water in the base was a good substitute for Brad talking, Trevor thought.

Of course, though, it was Brad that broke the delicate silence first. He hummed loudly and exhaled, leaning back as a thick plume of grey smoke came out of his mouth and nose. "Hey, Townley," he croaked. "Y'wanna hit?"

Michael froze, positioned on the other side of the coffee table from Brad. "No, I don't want a fucking hit, you fucking moron!" he shouted.

Brad looked taken aback, as if this were the first time Michael had ever lost it on him, which certainly wasn't the case. Michael was all keyed up, rigid and practically vibrating on the spot.

"Mikey, hey—chill, bro," Trevor said, trying to keep his voice even, to not belie how annoyed he still felt with Michael. "Just take it down a notch. We're all gonna have a good fuckin' laugh about this i—n a day or two, anyway."

Michael didn't answer. Instead, he turned, staring hard at Trevor for a moment before walking back to the window sill. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and though his back blocked most of Trevor's view, he saw him fish out a slip of paper. It was greyed and crumpled, like it'd been handled a bunch. Michael reached for his phone next, and dialled whatever number was written on the paper. Trevor watched him with keen interest—this was strange behaviour for Michael. He almost never called anyone, let alone anyone whose number he hadn't memorised. 

"Be back," Michael mumbled a moment later, heading for the front door. Trevor could hear the other line ringing through the phone as he passed.

Trevor glanced at Brad after Michael had left, but it didn't seem like he'd registered anything about Michael's leaving like Trevor had. He was still sprawled out on the couch, bong cradled between his legs, eyes focused on some point on the wall across the room.

But he must have sensed Trevor looking at him then, because his eyes snapped over to look at him. "What?"

Trevor opened his mouth to bark at Brad, to use him as a sounding board for his frustration, but he stopped himself. It'd have been pointless, trying to explain the dark feeling that'd settled into him. Instead he shook his head and muttered, "nothing."

Trevor shuffled across the room, over to the windows as Brad scoffed from the couch. "Townley's probably just all frustrated, y'know, like I bet it's been a while since he's stuck it to Mandy."

A fresh wave of annoyance passed through Trevor as he squared himself in front of the window, leaning forward until his hips connected with the sill. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked outside. "Snider, would you just--" Trevor paused when Michael passed into his field of vision on the sidewalk below the safehouse. 

He was pacing a short path, between a fire hydrant and a street light, his phone still held to his ear. He was nodding, obviously just listening to whoever was on the other end. Trevor watched for a few minutes as Michael kept up the pattern of pacing and nodding, and then Michael stopped short suddenly. He pivoted, turning to face the street, and put his free hand on his hip. He looked like he was shaking his head, but the safehouse was too high up for Trevor to really be sure. Then, Michael tilted his head back as he ended the call, and Trevor drew away from the window slightly in order not to be seen, but Michael's eyes were closed. Trevor blinked, and Michael was gone.

 It'd be less than a minute before Michael was upstairs again, probably, assuming he was coming back, so Trevor took long strides away from the window and went back to the kitchen, picking up his abandoned beer. He took two deep pulls, partly to make a dent in the bottle's contents, and partly to dull the pointed thoughts that wouldn't stop swimming in his head.

Michael slipped through the front door of the apartment a few moments later. He glanced at Trevor as he passed through the hallway, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

Trevor lowered his beer bottle and tried not to peer too intently at Michael as he cleared his throat. "All good?"

It was the only thing Trevor could think to ask that wouldn't make Michael clam right up--simple and vague enough that he could lie if he wanted to.

"Yeah," Michael said with a heavy sigh, sinking down onto the couch next to Brad. "All good."

Of course Michael's answer was just as simple and vague as the question had been, but Trevor took it for what it was. Because what else was there between them if not trust?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long with this update! This was the one chapter I didn't really have a plan for before I started writing, and I'd actually written something completely different first, but changed my mind at the last minute & started over. It's a bit of a filler chapter unfortunately, but hopefully it still works!
> 
> (Also, the AFT is meant to be the canon equivalent of the ATF, a la the FIB/FBI).


	10. Chapter 10

**DECEMBER 2004  
** _MICHAEL_

'Call this number only once you've made your decision'— _that's what Michael had been told. He'd been holding onto the slip of paper for nearly three months, and had almost thrown it away a few times. But he'd always stopped himself before it was too late. It wasn't just a slip of paper, not with that number written on it. With that, it was a lifeline, the rip cord on his parachute, the one thing he could rely on to slow this freefall he was in._

_The line had wrung several times before it was picked up. And then it crackled a little, like dead air that probably wasn't really dead, and Michael got the sinking feeling a trace was being set up on the call. But what did that matter now? They'd tracked him down once already._

_Finally the line picked up properly. "Mr Townley."_

_Michael couldn't help but scoff. "Well don't I feel special_ _—_ _whatever happened to pleasantries?"_

_The man on the other end cleared his throat. "Mr Townley," he repeated, voice firm. "I take it you've called this number for a reason?"_

_Michael sighed, the man's serious tone bringing him back to the depths he'd been in a moment ago. He leaned back against the brick wall of the apartment building, near the front door, bending his knee and planting his foot. "Is this Norton?"_

_"It is."_

_"Right, okay... good."_

_Norton waited a moment before speaking again. "Am I right, Mr Townley, in assuming that you're ready to move ahead with what we discussed_ _—_ _"_

_"I'm done, Norton."_

_It felt good, to say the words now, after he'd choked on them in the back of the van earlier._

_"You sound quite conflicted. Are you sure, Mr Townley? Once the plan is in motion, it won't be stopped."_

_The rush of what'd happened that afternoon flooded back to Michael, heady and infuriating all over again. "Yeah, I'm sure... Fuck. Yeah."_

_"May I ask what changed your mind?"_

_"It was a real clusterfuck, total amateur hour shit." There didn't seem to be much reason to hold back with this guy_ _—_ _he'd already known everything there was to know when he'd cornered Michael in that bar at the end of the summer. "Trevor, he... he set up this deal, said it was going to be all straightforward and shit, but it seemed off from the start. Too much money for too little product, unvetted buyer, some way-out neighbourhood_ _—_ _the whole bit."_

_"And it went south?"_

_Michael scoffed, hard and bitter. "'South.' Fuck yeah, it went south. It was a fuckin' sting. AFT everywhere."_

_Norton was quiet for a minute, before exhaling loud and slow. "Well then..."_

_Michael opened his mouth to continue, but paused_ _—_ _Norton was FIB. AFT couldn't have been that far outside of his reach, if he really wanted to get hold of them. "Wait a second here, Norton..."_

_Norton hummed._

_Michael pushed off the wall and took a few steps forward, before pacing back and forth in front of the apartment building. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this little set up, would you?"_

_"Drugs aren't my jurisdiction."_

_"Right, sure, but you guys work together, don't you. Collusion between agencies, that's a thing, ain't it?"_

_"Sometimes."_

_"So you could utilise 'em if you wanted to, right? Don't dick me around, Norton_ _—_ _you want my cooperation, you tell me straight up."_

_Norton paused, and Michael could hear the shuffle of papers in the background. "If it were a high-value target, sure, that could happen."_

_"Don't get much higher value than me and Trevor to you right now, does it?" Michael said, shaking his head._

_Norton sighed, but it was light, nearly a chuckle. "Let's get back on topic, hm, Mr Townley?"_

_That was as much of an admission as he was going to get, Michael knew, but either way, how was he going to press the issue? This was the FIB; they had him by the balls so long as he wanted out, and even if he'd changed his mind now, they knew everything they needed to now to put him away for life. He was well and truly fucked, unless he gave them what they wanted._

_Michael walked forward a few steps, stopping at the edge of the sidewalk and facing the street. "Yeah... yeah, okay."_

_"You remember the conditions?"_

_"Yes, I remember the fucking_ conditions _." The 'conditions' had been keeping him up at night nearly as much as did the stress that'd driven him to seriously consider the offer in the first place. "I just... I need out."_

 _"Good. We're helping_ you _, remember that."_

_"So long as I give you what you want, you mean."_

_"Well, yes, naturally. Keep your phone number active, Mr Townley. I'll be in touch one to two weeks before we go live."_

_Michael sighed and pulled the phone away from his ear, disconnecting the call. As the sharp, familiar guilt settled in his gut, he let his head fall back, eyes closed._

_It started to snow._

* * *

The call from Norton that set everything in motion had come the day before. Truthfully, Michael had... not _forgotten_ about the whole thing in the two months since that busted deal—he'd never forgotten it—but it'd shifted to the back of his mind, sometime around Thanksgiving. It was always there, though. Maybe instead he'd just adapted to the weight of it, he wondered. Or maybe that was just him being optimistic. At least it was the easier pill to swallow.

But either way, yesterday, Michael had gone from just a guy shovelling his driveway, to a guy handing over his best friend to the FIB.

It was too easy to fall into the guilt spiral, when he thought of things that way. He always went back to that day in Lakeview, with Trevor and his shaggy hair and his aviators, without all the wear and tear that'd crept onto his face from a couple decades of hard living. With the fat guy and his smoking eye socket. With the bracing rush of air as Michael had hauled his body out of the plane. With the acrid stink of the cockpit and how relieved he'd felt when he'd puked all over the tarmac after landing. With the way Trevor had looked at him, cautious and knowing at the same time, after Michael had suggested, in not so many words, that maybe they work together, as if somehow he'd already known everything that was going to happen between them over the last nineteen years, and how it was all going to end.

And it was probably shitty of him, but it was nearly as easy to not let his mind spiral like that, and to distance himself from every outcome that didn't immediately involve him, or Amanda and the kids. As if Trevor was collateral damage, an eventuality that Michael wouldn't have been able to predict.

He didn't want to think about how many times he'd practiced feigning shock at the mental image of Trevor slumped in the snow, bleeding out next to him. It was only ever a weak vision, half-formed and opaque—which was odd, because Michael knew well what it looked like when someone died that way—but the way Michael could make himself feel in the face of it, unaffected and numb, was pretty damn real either way.

Now, Michael nursed a lukewarm beer, holding court at a small table at the back of some bar off the highway. He'd picked the place because they'd never been there before; no one would know who they were. It reminded Michael a lot of the years before the kids, when he and Trevor would find themselves in Nowheresville, North Yankton. He sighed and tamped that thought down quickly, drowning it in a deep swig of beer.

Trevor and Brad rolled in together when Michael was just into his second bottle. They looked rough as hell, unwashed and unrested, and Michael wasn't sure if they'd just come off a job or a bender. Probably both.

"Mikey!" Trevor called, sauntering over to the table. " _Long_ time no see, buddy." Trevor sat and stared hard at Michael.

Michael tried not to wince. Just once, they'd seen each other, since that AFT fuck up in October.

"Yeah, T—how's things?"

"'Things?' Well, _things_ are good, Michael. Things are real good, ain't they, Bradley?"

Michael didn't miss the way Trevor sneered at Brad. He couldn't tell what Trevor was playing at—either trying to make Michael jealous, despite Michael knowing how little he actually liked Brad, or poking fun at Brad in a way that the guy'd never pick up.

Brad smiled, slow to react. He was probably still high. "Yeah, real good."

"Just off a job?" Michael asked, deflecting a bit by sipping his beer.

"Little something, up Carson way," Trevor said. "Figured you were all set, right?"

Michael nodded. "Yeah, yeah, all good. But I've been working on something, y'know, putting something together..."

"Bullshit."

"Not bullshit."

Trevor's eyes widened and he shook his head. "Townley finally stepping up to the plate! Whaddayaknow, Bradley?"

Brad scoffed. "Bet Mandy just wants another tit job..."

Michael grit his teeth, as his temper flared deep in his chest. Normally he'd lay Brad out for talking about Amanda like that but he couldn't now—he'd need Brad on this, if they were going to knock over the cash depot as efficiently as Norton required.

Michael took a deep breath then said as he exhaled, "alright, alright. Can we get down to it? This is big."

"How big?" Trevor asked, not missing a beat.

"Hundred and eighty less five percent to a driver, all cash—if we do things right."

Trevor whistled low under his breath and leaned forward on the table. "Shit."

"But it's delicate, not gonna be a cakewalk."

"Whatever—we've done worse for a lot less."

"Yeah, T, we have, but this is gonna attract some attention. Real risky..."

"Quit teasing, you fuck. What is it?"

"Cash depot, next town over. Ludendorff."

Trevor barked out a laugh. "Ludendorff? As in home of that fucking beaver statue and _literally_ nothing else? No fuckin' way we're getting six figures out of that shithole."

"Yeah, yeah, but hold up. This depot, it services all the banks in the county. They get cash shipments every two weeks on Mondays. Just had one yesterday, so the last one for the holidays will come on the twentieth—give 'em a day to get everything settled into the vaults, and hit 'em up on the twenty first."

"Regular fuckin' Santa Claus, you are," Trevor drawled, tilting his head back and finishing his beer.

Michael didn't need the reminder that this Christmas was going to be a pretty fucked up one for Tracey and Jimmy, but he took another deep breath and reminded himself of the bigger picture. By the time New Year's was passed, they'd be in Los Santos, set up in their new place and he and Amanda could give the kids a fucking week-long Christmas if they wanted to.

"Yeah, well," Michael said, trying to be nonchalant, giving Trevor a wink. "We're gonna have to blow that vault open, though—there's gonna be heat. A lot of it."

"Six figures, man!" Brad said. "I'll take all them cops on single-handed if I have to!"

"Yeah, right, Rambo. None of that shit, no heroics. It's going to be messy, but we still have to try and keep it as clean as possible. Not exactly a lot of back alleys and side streets in Beaver Town, right? Won't be hard to spot us once we hit the road."

Michael finished his beer and went over almost everything Norton had told him the day before. He laid it all out, hadn't missed a detail, save for a few of the logistics... the chopper, the train schedule. He'd thought it better to hold back on those; anything too complicated and Trevor would try and change it up, if he didn't insist on flying the chopper himself. Michael would bring it up the night before or something, find some way of couching it as a last minute executive decision thing.

The damage was done back when Michael agreed to the deal; what difference did a few more lies of omission make?

* * *

When Michael woke up two weeks later in the motel in Ludendorff, it took him a few moments to get his bearings. It'd been a few months since he'd woken up anywhere other than the bed he shared with Amanda.

Trevor was next to him on the other bed in the room, sprawled out on his stomach on top of the bedding. Michael wondered if maybe it was his brain's way of orientating itself, but the first thing he thought of when he saw Trevor was the fact that there'd been times when they'd shared beds just like these, in motels just like this, getting blasted and fucking through the night, waking up sore and sticky and sometimes only just sobered up.

But it'd been several years since that'd last happened. So many that Trevor had stopped even bringing it up anymore, stopped trying to initiate. And Michael knew if he had tried it last night, one of the beds in their room probably would've gone untouched. Michael didn't want to consider whether it'd be out of some fucked up sense of guilt or some even more fucked up genuine desire to, because neither option left him much better off.

Something like nostalgia or wistfulness settled in like a cloud over Michael's head as he looked over at Trevor, various memories playing over in his head.

It was easier, more productive, to think about his plan, about what he had to do. There was a bulletproof vest, folded up in his duffle near the foot of the bed; he'd slip it on once Trevor was up, while he was busy taking a piss or something. Then they'd meet Brad and the local they'd hired to drive, and that would be it.

Get in, subdue the staff, blow the vault, get the cash, get out, beat the train, and wait for the chopper that wasn't ever going to come.

It reminded Michael of Nationals, in high school. So many variables, and everything riding on one big play. It'd been over twenty years since he'd last felt the turf underfoot, but it all flooded back to him now, sharp and fresh.

There wasn't anything else he could do now, except to focus, to stick to the plan, to keep his guys in check, and remind himself of the payoff at the end of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry for how long it's taken me to get this chapter out... Writing through depression is not a lot of fun. But we're in the homestretch now (*sob*) so I'll try to have the next chapter posted asap! ♥


End file.
